The silence in Seventeen’s primary dorm didn't lift when Y/N’s bedroom door clicked shut. It solidified, turning into an unyielding, physical weight that pinned the remaining thirteen members to their seats.
On the glass coffee table, the black screen of Y/N’s phone seemed to stare back at them. Pledis Legal Team 2. It was a clinical execution order wrapped in a digital interface.
Seungcheol hadn’t moved from the edge of the coffee table. His hands were still extended slightly toward the empty space where she had been sitting, his fingers curled as if trying to catch the phantom threads of her presence.
"Thirteen," Seungkwan whispered, his voice cracking violently into the quiet room. He was curled into a tight ball on the sofa, his face completely soaked with tears. "We... we said thirteen on the radio. Coups-hyung, you said thirteen."
"I didn't mean it," Seungcheol choked out, his head dropping into his hands, his broad shoulders shaking. The confident, unyielding leader who had stared down corporate boards for six years was entirely gone. "It’s a phrase for the foreign media templates. It’s what the PR team writes. I didn't... God, I didn't even think about how it would sound to her."
"That’s the problem, isn't it?" Minghao’s voice was like ice, slicing through the heavy atmosphere. He was still standing to the left of the chair Y/N had just vacated, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. "We don't think. We climb the charts, we sell out stadiums, we celebrate our 'perfect machine,' and we completely forget that the fourteenth gear is being stripped raw just to keep the rest of us turning."
"Hao, that’s enough," Jeonghan said quietly from the kitchen counter. But his voice lacked its usual authority. His hands were gripping the marble edge so tightly his knuckles were white. He looked toward the hallway where Y/N’s door had closed, his heart aching with the memory of her limp arms in his embrace just hours earlier. "We all failed. Every single one of us."
Jihoon stood up abruptly. He didn't look at anyone. His face was a mask of absolute, pale shock. He walked toward the front door, his hand trembling as he reached for his jacket.
"Where are you going?" Hoshi asked from the floor, his voice raw.
"The studio," Jihoon whispered, his throat tight. "I need to... I have to look at the track files. I have to look at Shadow."
"It’s four in the morning, Jihoon," Joshua said softly, reaching out to catch his sleeve.
"I don't care if it's the middle of the night!" Jihoon shouted, slamming his hand against the wall. The sudden outburst made Seokmin flinch. Tears finally spilled over Jihoon's lashes, hot and furious. "I told her her lyrics were too dark. I told her they didn't fit our image. She was telling me she was dying in the dark, and I gave her a lecture on commercial branding! I have to open the files. I have to see what I threw away."
He ripped his arm away from Joshua's grip and let himself out of the apartment, the heavy front door slamming closed with a dull, echoing boom.
Inside the bedroom, the world had shrunk to the space between two heartbeats.
Wonwoo’s chest was warm against Y/N’s back, his long arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her into him until there was no air left between them. He hadn't stopped shaking. The quiet, unbothered rapper who usually watched the world through a detached lens was holding onto her like she was the only solid thing left in a collapsing universe.
"Oppa," Y/N whispered into the dark, her voice small and rough from hours of crying. "You should go out there. They need you."
"No," Wonwoo murmured, his voice dropping into that deep, gravelly register that only came when he was completely drained. He buried his face deeper into the crook of her neck, his breath warm against her skin. "I’ve spent six years standing out there with them while you stood back here alone. Tonight, I'm staying in the corner."
"They didn't mean to do it," she said softly, staring at the faint gray light beginning to trace the edges of the window blinds. It was a strange twist of the heart even now, with her contract resignation sitting on the table, her first instinct was to protect the boys from their own guilt. "Coups-hyung... he’s just trying to keep the group alive. The company puts so much pressure on him."
"Don't defend him, Y/N-ah," Wonwoo whispered, his grip tightening around her waist just a fraction, as if he were physically fighting the legal team she had tried to call. "He’s the leader, but he’s also your brother. If he’s too busy looking at the stadiums to see that his sister is disappearing in the wings, then he’s failing at both."
He shifted slightly, turning her around in his arms until she was facing him. In the weak dawn light, his sharp eyes were wide, bloodshot, and filled with a rare, desperate vulnerability.
"Minghao was right," Wonwoo said, his thumb coming up to trace the fragile line of her jaw. "If you do this... if Team 2 processes the paperwork, the company will make it ugly. They’ll structure the articles to protect the 'Seventeen' brand. They’ll say you left because of health reasons, or personality differences, or lack of dedication. The fans... some of them will be furious. Are you ready for that?"
Y/N looked into his eyes, her heart aching with the sheer weight of his worry. "I’ve spent six years being torn apart by solo stans for just existing in the line-up, Wonwoo. I’ve read the threads saying I’m the 'ugly variable' that ruins the dance formations. Do you really think an official exit article can hurt me more than sitting in that waiting room tonight while everyone looked right through me?"
Wonwoo closed his eyes, a sharp, ragged breath escaping his throat. He leaned down, pressing his forehead against hers, his fingers curling into the fabric of her black hoodie.
"Then let me come with you," he whispered.
Y/N froze, her breath catching in her throat. "What?"
"If you leave... let me terminate mine too," Wonwoo said, the words falling out of him with a terrifying, absolute certainty. "I don't want to stand on that stage if half my heart is sitting in a legal office in Samseong-dong. I don't want to sing the bridge if I’m looking at the space where you used to stand."
"Are you crazy?" Y/N’s voice finally rose, her hands coming up to grip his shoulders, pushing him back just enough to see his face. "Wonwoo, no! You love the stage. You love the Carats. You went through the green basement you bled for this group!"
"I bled with you," he corrected fiercely, his eyes flashing with an intensity she had never seen in him before. "We built this together. If the system is so broken that it requires your erasure to function, then I don't want to be a part of the machine either."
A quiet knock on the door broke the heavy tension of the room.
Y/N and Wonwoo both turned their heads as the door pushed open a few inches. Minghao stood in the threshold. The morning light from the hallway hit his face, revealing the dark circles under his eyes. He didn't look angry anymore; he just looked incredibly old.
"Coups wants to talk to you," Minghao said quietly, his eyes lingering on Wonwoo’s defensive posture before moving to Y/N. "Not as the leader. He left his phone and his tablet on the kitchen counter. He just wants to speak to his sister."
Y/N looked at Wonwoo. He was staring at her with an unspoken plea, his hand still tight on her waist, silent text saying you don't have to go if you aren't ready.
But Y/N took a deep breath, the hollow clarity from the corridor returning to steady her nerves. "It's okay, oppa. I’ll go."
Slowly, she slid out of the bed, her joints popping in the quiet room. Wonwoo followed her closely, stepping into the hallway right behind her like a shadow that refused to leave her side.
The living room had changed. The remaining members were still there, but they had moved. Seungcheol was sitting alone on the floor in the center of the room, his back against the sofa, staring at the empty wooden chair Y/N had used earlier.
As Y/N walked in, the boys went entirely still. Seungkwan quickly wiped his face, trying to stop his sniffing, while Dino looked up from the corner with an expression of pure, childlike heartbreak.
Y/N didn't sit in the wooden chair. She walked over and sat directly on the floor, a few feet away from Seungcheol, crossing her legs. Wonwoo sat right behind her, his knees bracketing her hips, his chest an unyielding support against her spine.
Seungcheol slowly lifted his head. His eyes were completely red, the skin around them swollen from crying. He looked at her really looked at her for what felt like the first time in six months.
"I called the Vice President," Seungcheol said, his voice completely hoarse, barely carrying across the small space.
Y/N’s heart did a small, cold flip. Already?
"I told him that if Legal Team 2 answers a single call from your number," Seungcheol continued, his lower lip trembling as he reached into his pocket and pulled out his own personal ID card the official leader pass that gave him access to every executive floor in the Pledis building, "I am stepping down as the general leader of Seventeen effective immediately. And I told him that if they try to release a single negative article about your departure, the thirteen of us will sit in the lobby and refuse to record the repackage album."
The room went entirely silent. Even Wonwoo’s grip on her shoulder went rigid.
"Cheol..." Y/N whispered, her eyes widening.
"I’m not trying to force you to stay, Y/N-ah," Seungcheol said, a fresh tear tracking down his pale cheek. He placed his leader card on the glass table, sliding it right next to her phone. "If staying here is killing you, I will personally drive you to the corporate office and help you sign the termination papers. I will protect you from the company, and I will protect you from the media. But I need you to know... I didn't see you because I was stupid. I thought because you didn't cry, you were okay. I thought because you always smiled, you were strong."
He leaned forward, his forehead coming down to touch the cool glass of the table between them, his voice breaking into a ragged, pathetic sob.
"Please don't leave thinking you didn't matter," the leader wept into the quiet room. "If you go... we will let you go because we love you. But we will never be whole again. The fourteenth seat is yours, Y/N. Even if it stays empty for the rest of our careers, nobody else is ever going to sit in it."
Y/N stared at the back of his head, her own tears finally spilling over, hot and heavy, dripping onto the fabric of her sweatpants. She looked around the circle at Minghao’s tight jaw, at Jeonghan’s closed eyes, at Wonwoo’s steady warmth behind her.
The legal papers were still waiting in the corporate office. The three-second bridge blocking was still locked for the music shows. The system hadn't magically changed in the middle of the night.
But as the morning sun finally broke through the living room windows, flooding the cramped apartment with a bright, golden warmth, Y/N realized one thing: The ghosthood was gone. They were looking at her, they were bleeding for her, and for the first time in six months... she was visible.
The golden morning light crept further across the living room floor, illuminating the raw, exhausted faces of the fourteen people who had spent their entire youth building a dream together.
Seungcheol remained with his forehead pressed against the glass table, his shoulders shaking with the quiet, devastating grief of a leader who had finally realized his own blindness. Next to his bowed head, his leader ID pass and Y/N’s locked phone sat side-by-side.
Y/N looked at the plastic card, then up at the brothers surrounding her. The initial, bitter anger that had fueled her walk down the corridor yesterday had faded, replaced by a profound, heavy sorrow. They weren't a perfect machine anymore. They were just thirteen broken boys realization-struck by the cost of their own success.
Slowly, Y/N slid forward, moving out of the protective bracket of Wonwoo’s knees. Wonwoo let his hands drop, but his eyes never left her as she closed the distance between herself and the leader.
She reached out, her small, trembling hand gently coming to rest on top of Seungcheol’s thick hair.
"Cheol," she whispered, reverting to the softer, more intimate honorific she used when they were trainees, long before he became Seungcheol or the General Leader. "Pick your head up. Please."
Seungcheol slowly lifted his face, his eyes swollen and bloodshot. He looked at her hand on his hair, then into her eyes, looking entirely lost.
"I don't want you to throw your career away for me," Y/N said softly, her voice thick with her own tears. "I don't want the thirteen of you to strike, or to sit in the lobby, or to break the circle because of me. If I leave... I want to leave because it's time for me to heal, not because I want to burn down everything you’ve all bled for."
"But we bled for it with you, Y/N-ah," Seungkwan choked out from the sofa, his voice muffled by a throw pillow. "If you leave like this, every trophy we win from now on is just going to feel like a reminder that we pushed you out to get it."
"You didn't push me out," Y/N murmured, looking back at Seungkwan, giving him a fragile, reassuring smile. "You just... you forgot to look back. And I forgot how to scream when I was drowning."
Minghao stepped forward from the edge of the kitchen, his posture finally relaxing from his rigid stance. He walked over and sat on the floor next to Y/N, pulling his legs up to his chest. His sharp eyes searched her face.
"The legal call," Minghao said quietly, his voice a calm anchor in the emotional room. "What do you want to do, Y/N-ah? Truly. No corporate pressure, no leader ultimatums. If you want to walk out that door, I will carry your bags. But if you are only leaving because you think you aren't wanted... look around this room."
Y/N looked.
She saw Hoshi, whose fierce, tiger-like intensity on stage was completely replaced by a crumpled, heartbroken expression. She saw Dokyeom gripping his knees so tightly his knuckles were white, silently praying. She felt Wonwoo’s steady, unyielding gaze from behind her, a silent promise that whatever she chose, he was still ready to walk out the door with her.
"I'm scared," Y/N confessed, the truth slipping out before she could stop it. Her fingers curled into her sweatpants. "I’m scared that if I stay, the next comeback will be exactly the same. I'm scared that I’ll be hidden behind Mingyu’s shoulders again, and I’ll have to sit on the edge of the bench, and I’ll have to listen to the directors say my voice doesn't fit the 'color' of the group."
"It won't be," a new voice spoke from the entryway.
Everyone turned. Jihoon was standing in the doorway, his jacket damp from the morning dew, his baseball cap gripped tightly in his hand. He looked completely drained, but his eyes were wide and burning with an absolute, fierce intensity. He had walked all the way back from the universe of his studio.
He walked into the center of the living room, ignoring the space between the members, and dropped a thick, printed stack of paper directly onto the coffee table.
Y/N looked down. It was the audio tracking sheets and lyric blocks for Shadow. But the margins were covered in fresh, chaotic black ink Jihoon’s unmistakable, frantic handwriting.
"I opened the files," Jihoon said, his voice trembling as he stared directly at Y/N. "I took out the verses we locked last week. I put yours back in. The whole song the intro, the first chorus, the outro it’s yours now, Y/N. It’s not 'too dark.' It’s the truth of what we’ve been putting you through, and it’s going to be the main promotional B-side for the repackage."
Y/N’s breath hitched, her hand flying to her mouth as she stared at the ink-stained papers. "Jihoon-oppa..."
"And I called the performance directors on my way back," Hoshi spoke up eagerly, crawling forward on his knees until he was right next to Seungcheol. "I told them we are scrapping the second-verse blocking for the title track. I don't care about the thirteen-member symmetry anymore. We’re moving Mingyu to the left wing during the bridge, and you’re standing dead center, Y/N. The camera isn't going to miss a single syllable."
Y/N sat in the center of their sudden, overwhelming desperation to fix what they had broken. It was everything she had wanted for the past six months every boundary she had begged them to cross, every tiny scrap of validation she had starved for.
But as she looked at Jihoon’s exhausted face and Hoshi’s frantic adjustments, she realized the most important change wasn't on the paper or in the choreography.
It was the fact that they were finally looking at her. The phantom thread hadn't snapped; they had grabbed onto it with both hands, terrifyingly aware of how close they had come to letting it slip away forever.
Slowly, Y/N reached across the glass table. She passed over the leader ID card, leaving it for Seungcheol. Instead, her fingers wrapped around her own phone. She unlocked the screen, pulled up the contact for Pledis Legal Team 2, and with a single, deliberate swipe of her thumb, she hit the delete button.
The room let out a collective, ragged breath, the tension snapping like a rubber band. Seungkwan buried his face back into the pillow, his sobs turning from grief to sheer, overwhelming relief.
Y/N looked up, her eyes meeting Wonwoo’s in the quiet dawn light. The deep, heavy sorrow in his eyes slowly melted into something soft, a quiet, profound gratitude that made his entire face relax for the first time in twenty-four hours. He reached forward, his long fingers gently catching the hem of her black sleeve, pulling her back just an inch toward him.
"I'm not signing the papers today," Y/N said softly, looking back at Seungcheol, whose eyes were wide with a sudden, cautious hope. "But I’m not practicing today either, hyung. I’m tired. I need to sleep. And I need to write."
"Anything you want," Seungcheol whispered, his voice cracking as he reached out and covered her hand with his own large, warm palm. "Sleep for a week. We’ll push the pre-recordings back. We’ll handle the company. Just... stay in the room, Y/N-ah."
"I'm here," she whispered back, the tears finally slowing down.
As the members slowly began to move, the rigid courtroom atmosphere dissolving back into the chaotic, protective warmth of their shared home, Y/N let herself lean completely back against Wonwoo’s chest. His arms wrapped around her waist immediately, holding her securely, no longer like a shield against a cruel world, but like a solid, permanent anchor.
The machine was still complicated, the industry was still harsh, and the road to healing the last six years of silent erosion was going to be long and painful. But as Wonwoo buried his face in her hair, his breathing finally steady and calm against her neck, Y/N closed her eyes.
She wasn't a ghost anymore. She was the fourteenth member of Seventeen, and for the first time since debut, the silence didn't hurt.
The collective exhale that had filled the room suddenly caught in thirteen throats.
Y/N’s hand remained resting on her phone, the screen showing that Pledis Legal Team 2 had indeed been deleted from her recent contacts. But her thumb wasn’t shaking anymore. The hollow, terrifying clarity that had carried her through the broadcasting station hadn’t vanished just because Jihoon had rewritten a lyric sheet or because Seungcheol had threatened a strike.
She looked at Seungcheol, whose hand was still covering hers, his eyes wide with a fragile, desperate relief that she was about to systematically dismantle.
"I deleted the contact," Y/N said, her voice dropping into a quiet, unyielding register that made the room go completely still again. "But I didn’t say I’m staying."
Seungcheol’s palm went rigid over hers. Behind her, Wonwoo’s arms tightened around her waist instinctively, his chest heaving with a sharp, sudden intake of breath.
"Y/N-ah..." Seungcheol’s voice was a ragged whisper, the hope draining from his face so fast it left him looking gray under the morning sun.
"I’m not going to call the lawyers today, and I’m not going to slip out the back door while you’re all asleep," she continued, looking around the circle of her brothers. "I owe you, and I owe Wonwoo, more than a sudden disappearance. But you can’t undo six months of drowning in twenty minutes, hyung. You can't rewrite the last six years of my life with one b-side track."
Jihoon stood frozen by the coffee table, his hand still resting on the ink-stained sheets of Shadow. The fierce, frantic energy that had driven him back from the studio evaporated, leaving him looking devastatingly small. "Y/N... I can change more than just Shadow. Whatever you want to write, whatever concept you feel fits you-"
"It's not a negotiation, Jihoon-oppa," she said softly, shifting her gaze to him. Her eyes were entirely sympathetic, but they were firm. "That’s exactly what I mean. Right now, you’re all reacting out of terror. You’re reacting because you looked down and realized the floor was cracking. But what happens in three months? What happens during the next world tour, when the schedules are packed, and the company is screaming about profit margins, and the formations have to be perfect again? Are you still going to see me then, or are you going to go back to the machine because it’s easier?"
No one answered. The brutal honesty of her words hung in the air, a mirror reflecting the relentless, corporate reality of their careers. They all knew how the industry worked. When the pressure cooker of a comeback cycle hit its peak, survival mode took over and in survival mode, routines became absolute.
"I need time," Y/N said, looking back at Seungcheol. "I’m going to finish this promotion cycle. I’ll stand in the center for the bridge, and I’ll sing the verses Jihoon wrote. I’ll give Carats the fourteen-member comeback they paid to see. But every single day of these promotions, I am still going to be thinking about leaving."
A quiet, choked sob broke from Seokmin's corner. He covered his face with his hands, his broad shoulders shaking violently. Beside him, Seungkwan looked up, his eyes rimmed with raw red, his lower lip trembling.
"So... it’s a countdown?" Seungkwan asked, his voice barely a squeak. "We’re just waiting for the day you decide to drop the pen?"
"It’s an evaluation," Minghao corrected from her side, his voice a calm, grounded shield against the rising panic in the room. He didn't look surprised by her words; if anything, a faint, proud look crossed his sharp features. He looked at the rest of the group. "She’s giving us a chance to prove that we’re actually a family, not just business partners who share a kitchen. If we can’t change our habits when the lights are bright, we don't deserve to keep her."
Seungcheol slowly slid his hand off hers, pulling his fingers back tightly against his chest. He looked at his leader ID card resting on the table. The authority it carried felt completely useless now. He couldn't command her to stay. He couldn't manage her out of her pain.
"Okay," Seungcheol whispered, a single, heavy tear dropping onto his sweatpants. He lifted his head, his expression shifting from a broken boy back into the protector, but this time, the protection was entirely for her. "Okay, Y/N-ah. That’s fair. It’s more than fair. We will earn it. Every single day, we will earn the right to have you stand next to us."
He stood up, his joints popping loudly in the quiet room. He looked at the rest of the members, his eyes hard and commanding. "No one pressures her. No one makes her feel guilty for checking out mentally when she needs to. If she wants to sit in the waiting room with her headphones on, you let her breathe. If she wants to go back to the dorm early, the managers will make it happen. We don't adjust her to fit Seventeen anymore. We adjust Seventeen to protect Y/N."
The boys nodded in unison, a solemn, quiet vow rippling through the semi-circle. Hoshi wiped his eyes fiercely with the back of his hand, leaning back against the wall, his jaw set.
Slowly, the heavy weight in the room began to fracture into movement. Joshua gently guided a still-crying Seungkwan toward the kitchen to get some water, while Dino and Chan quietly picked up the discarded jackets from the floor.
Wonwoo didn't move. He remained sitting right behind her, his chin resting gently on the top of her shoulder, his long arms still locked around her waist.
"You did good," he murmured against her ear, his deep voice vibrating right into her spine. "You held your ground."
Y/N let her head fall back against his shoulder, letting out a long, shuddering breath that felt like the first real pocket of oxygen she had claimed in months. "Are you disappointed, oppa? That I didn't just say I'd stay for you?"
Wonwoo let out a soft, dry chuckle that held no humor, only an immense, profound relief. He tightened his grip on her, burying his face in the fabric of her black hoodie.
"I told you in that storage room, Y/N-ah... I don't want a statistic, and I don't want a ghost," Wonwoo whispered into the dark of her hair. "If you stayed just because I begged you, you’d still be fading away inside. I want you whole. Even if being whole means you eventually walk out that door, I’d rather watch you leave on your own two feet than watch you disappear while standing right next to me. I’m here for the evaluation. I’m not letting go."
Y/N closed her eyes, her fingers interlocking with his over her stomach. The morning sun was fully up now, casting long, bright geometric shapes across the living room floor, burning away the shadows of the night. The countdown had officially begun, and the bridge beneath her was still fragile but for the first time in six months, she wasn't walking across it alone in the dark.
The next three weeks of promotions were unlike any schedule Seventeen had ever run.
To the public, the transition was flawless. When the repackage album dropped, Shadow debuted at number two on the charts, chased closely by the title track. The fans went wild over Y/N’s verses. For the first time, casual listeners and long-time Carats alike were flooded with vocal layers that weren’t just harmonies buried under Seokmin or Seungkwan they were raw, distinct, and hauntingly front-and-center.
But backstage, the atmospheric shift was staggering.
At the next music show pre-recording, the waiting room was a completely rewritten script. Y/N sat in her usual corner by the garment racks, her noise-canceling headphones pulled over her ears. Six weeks ago, this would have been an invisible boundary that kept her isolated. Tonight, it was a protected zone.
Mingyu had walked over twenty minutes ago, carrying a plate of sliced fruit. He hadn’t said a word to disrupt her space; he had simply set the plate on the small table next to her, tapped her shoulder to point at it with a warm, quiet smile, and walked back to join the others.
"Is she eating?" a voice murmured near the door.
Y/N pulled one side of her headphones down, her eyes tracking the whisper. Seungcheol was standing by the entrance, speaking to one of the main managers. His tablet was open, but his attention was entirely split.
"She took a few pieces," the manager replied quietly. "The performance coordinators want to know if she needs to skip the secondary blocking run-through. The stage floors are a bit slick today."
"Tell them she’s sitting out the dry rehearsal," Seungcheol said without a second of hesitation. His voice was firm, carrying that new, unyielding barrier he had built between Y/N and the corporate demands. "If they have an issue with the camera lines, tell them to adjust the tracking manually. We aren't running her ragged on a wet floor."
Y/N stared at the back of Seungcheol’s head. He didn't turn around to check if she was watching. He wasn't doing it to perform or to earn a quick smile from her; he was executing the vow he had made in the living room. He was managing the world so she didn't have to shrink herself to fit it.
"Line up! Entering the stage in three minutes!" the floor director bellowed through the corridor.
The members stood up, the rustle of heavy stage velvet filling the room. As they moved into the hallway, Hoshi stepped to the front, but he didn't immediately call for the chant. Instead, his sharp eyes scanned the line until they landed on Y/N.
"Spacing check," Hoshi said, his voice loud enough to clear the hallway chatter. "Verse two. Mingyu, remember your mark."
"I'm shifting three feet left the moment the lights hit the platform," Mingyu nodded instantly, his broad shoulders dropping back into a defensive lane that left the center lane completely unobstructed. "I've got the wing angle covered."
"Jihoon?" Hoshi tracked.
"Audio balance is locked," Jihoon said, stepping into line behind Y/N. He didn't push past her or give her a corporate lecture. He reached out, his small hand briefly catching the hem of her sleeve, giving it a light, grounding tug. "Sing it exactly like you did in the studio, Y/N-ah. The mic split is dead. Nobody is cutting your track."
The stage lights flooded the studio a minute later.
When the intro for Equilibrium hit, Y/N’s body moved with the same sharp, automated precision she had trained years for. But when the bridge arrived, the shift was physical.
As she stepped into the center, Mingyu cleared the lane with a sweeping, dramatic transition that felt almost protective. The main broadcast camera dipped low, locking onto her face as she delivered the vocal climax. For three seconds, she wasn't an extra or a transition pivot. She was the focal point of a thirteen-man engine that was deliberately turning around her.
From the front row of the audience, the fan chant rose like a wave—and for the first time in six years, her name didn't feel like an afterthought tucked into the end of the rhythm.
The evaluation continues
By 11:45 PM, the first van was quiet on the ride back to the dorms.
Y/N leaned her forehead against the cool window glass, watching the neon signs of the Han River blur past. Her phone lay flat on her lap. The notes app was open, but the digital graveyard of resignation letters had been replaced by a completely empty page. She hadn't written a single pro-or-con list in three weeks.
She felt a large, warm palm slide over her freezing fingers.
Wonwoo was sitting next to her, his thighs pressed tightly against hers in the cramped space, his reading glasses caught in the collar of his hoodie. He didn't look down at her phone screen. He didn't ask if she had made up her mind, or if the countdown was shrinking.
"Your voice sounded clear on the monitoring playback," Wonwoo said softly, his deep baritone a grounding weight against the hum of the van's engine. "The mixing team didn't drop your lower register this time."
"Jihoon-oppa stayed in the engineering room until four in the morning to make sure they didn't," Y/N whispered, her fingers curling slightly around Wonwoo’s thumb. "He didn't tell me, but Minghao saw his car in the lot."
Wonwoo let out a soft, low breath, his chest expanding against her shoulder. "They're trying, Y/N-ah. The whole house is trying."
"I know," she said.
She looked down at the empty note on her screen. The terrifying, heavy truth was still there the system was still massive, the industry was still clinical, and the scars of the past six years weren't going to vanish because of one good promotion cycle. She could still feel the phantom pull of that legal extension, the quiet allure of a life where she didn't have to fight for three seconds of air.
But as the van pulled into the dark basement garage of their dorm, she saw the door to the second van slide open. Seungkwan stepped out, immediately looking around the concrete space until his eyes locked onto her window, his face breaking into a small, tentative smile when he saw her wave back.
"Are you still thinking about it?" Wonwoo asked quietly, his grip on her hand tightening just a fraction as the engine cut out, leaving them in the dim, quiet luxury of the car.
Y/N turned her head, looking into his steady, intense eyes. There was no desperation in his face anymore just the unyielding, patient loyalty of a brother who was willing to wait at the edge of the line for as long as it took.
"Yes," Y/N whispered, her voice entirely honest. "I'm still thinking about it every day, oppa."
Wonwoo gave a single, slow nod, his thumb tracing the fragile skin of her wrist. He slid his fingers down, interlocking them with hers securely before reaching for the car door handle.
"Then we'll keep showing you the light tomorrow," Wonwoo murmured, pulling her gently out into the concrete garage where the other twelve were already waiting by the elevator, holding the door open for the fourteenth member to step in first. "Every single day until you decide to stay."
The final broadcast of the repackage promotions ended on a rainy Sunday night. The rest of the group had gone back to the main dorm in the first two vans, but Wonwoo had quietly spoken to their primary manager before the final stage. He didn't want the dorm tonight. He didn't want the kitchen table, the lingering, anxious glances of the other twelve, or the heavy, unspoken countdown that hung over the living room.
He had taken her keys, borrowed the manager's personal car, and driven her completely out of Seoul.
By 1:30 AM, they were parked at an abandoned, gravelly overlook near the old reservoir in Gapyeong a place they used to sneak away to during their brutal trainee days when the green basement felt like it was swallowing them alive. The rain pattered against the windshield in a steady, hypnotic rhythm, the dashboard clock throwing a faint, amber glow over Wonwoo’s face. He had taken off his stage makeup, stripped out of his performance velvet, and wore an oversized gray sweater that made him look like the boy she had met when she was thirteen years old.
He cut the engine, but he didn't pull his hands off the steering wheel. For a long time, he just stared out at the dark, rain-slicked water of the reservoir.
"You haven’t opened your notes app in three days," Wonwoo said, his deep baritone cutting through the quiet hum of the rain. It wasn't an accusation. His voice was thick, heavier than usual, carrying the exhaustion of a man who had been holding his breath for a month.
Y/N leaned her head back against the passenger seat, staring at his profile. "I didn't know you were tracking my screen time, oppa."
"I track everything about you, Y/N-ah," he murmured, his fingers finally dropping from the wheel. He shifted in his seat, turning his entire body to face her, drawing one leg up onto the cushion. He reached into the backseat, pulled out a thick, fleece blanket, and gently draped it over her lap, tucking the edges around her waist with a familiar, practiced care.
"I’ve been tracking you since 2015. And I think... I think I’ve been too quiet for too long. Everyone else has yelled. Coups threatened to strike, Jihoon spent eighty hours in the studio, Hao practically tore the storage room apart. But I haven’t really talked to you. Not about everything."
He let out a long, ragged breath, his shoulders dropping. His sharp eyes, usually so guarded behind his glasses, were wide, watery, and intensely vulnerable under the dim dashboard light.
"I remember the day you entered Pledis," Wonwoo started, his voice dropping into a rhythmic, melancholic cadence. He was doing more than talking; he was opening a valve that had been sealed shut for six years. "You were thirteen. You had these giant, terrified eyes, and your knees were bruised from practicing the debut evaluations until two in the morning. Do you remember what the trainers told us the first week you arrived? They sat the thirteen of us down and said, 'She’s the wildcard. If she doesn't fit the image by next evaluation, we drop her and revert to the original line-up.' From day one, they treated your existence in our lives like a temporary trial."
Y/N swallowed hard, the memory hitting her like a cold wave. "I forgot they said that."
"I didn't," Wonwoo whispered, a heavy, emotional crack breaking through his tone. "I didn't forget because I spent that entire week watching you hide behind the water purifier so you wouldn't get in anyone's way. And do you remember what happened during the Adore U promotions? When the first hate threads came out? The fans were furious that a girl had been added to a boy group. They cropped you out of the fansite photos. They blurred your face in the music video edits."
He reached out, his long, cool fingers gently capturing her right hand from beneath the fleece blanket. He didn't hold it tightly; he just cradled her palm in his, his thumb tracing the small scar near her index finger a reminder of a broken stage prop from their first year on tour.
"Back then, I promised myself I would be your safe spot," Wonwoo said, his eyes shining with unshed tears as he looked down at their hands. "I told myself, "As long as Wonwoo is standing next to her, she won't feel the cold." When we did the vocal team switches, I always made sure our mics shared the same frequency block so I could hear you breathing during the live stages. When we had those awful, crowded corporate dinners where the executives would ignore you and talk over your head to Coups, I would deliberately drop my chopsticks or complain about the food just to pull the attention away from you. I thought I was protecting you, Y/N-ah. I thought my silence was a shield."
He paused, his chest heaving as a quiet, choked sound escaped his throat. He lifted his other hand, taking off his glasses and rubbing his face fiercely, trying to stem the pressure behind his eyes. When he looked back at her, a single tear had escaped, tracking down his cheekbone into the dark fabric of his collar.
"But I was wrong," he confessed, his voice trembling violently now, fully exposed to the raw weight of his own guilt. "My silence wasn't a shield. It was just another layer of the dark. I was so comfortable having you in my corner, so selfishly happy that I had a sister who understood the quiet parts of my soul, that I didn't see the erosion. I watched Jihoon take your melodies because the company wanted a more 'aggressive masculine bass line,' and I didn't fight him. I watched Soonyoung move you to the back wing during Don't Wanna Cry because the visual symmetry looked better with Mingyu in the center, and I just stood on my mark and let it happen. I let them turn my sister into a ghost because I was too cowardly to disrupt the peace of the group."
"Woo, stop," Y/N whispered, her own tears blurring her vision, her chest aching at the sheer amount of agony in his voice. "You didn't do those things. The company did. The directors did."
"No, I let them do it!" Wonwoo’s voice finally rose, a rare, heartbreaking burst of raw volume that echoed inside the small car. He grabbed her hand with both of his now, holding it against his chest, right over the frantic, heavy thudding of his heart.
"I am a senior member of this group. I am part of the foundation. If I had opened my mouth three years ago, if I had stood up during the production meetings and said, 'If Y/N isn't singing the second verse, I’m not singing the first,' we wouldn't be sitting in a dark car in Gapyeong while you decide whether or not to destroy your own contract."
He leaned forward, his forehead dropping onto their joined hands, his shoulders shaking as the dam finally burst completely. Jeon Wonwoo, who never cried in public, who had buried his own deepest personal griefs away from the cameras, was falling apart in her lap.
"When I saw Team 2 on your phone that night," he wept, his voice muffled against her skin, "it felt like my entire life was being rewritten as a failure. I spent six years thinking I was your anchor, but I was just the weight holding you underwater. The thought of walking into that rehearsal room... of looking at the tape on the floor where your feet are supposed to be it makes me feel like I’m suffocating, Y/N-ah. I don't care about the perfect all-kills. I don't care about the stadiums. If you leave this group because we starved you of light, then everything we’ve built is just a monument to our own selfishness."
He lifted his head slowly, his face soaked with tears, his expression completely broken open. He reached up, his long, trembling fingers gently cupping both sides of her face, his thumbs wiping the tears from her cheeks with a desperate, frantic tenderness.
"I know you’re still thinking about it," Wonwoo whispered, his breath hot and ragged against her face. "I know every time you look at the schedule, you’re calculating how much strength you have left before you drop the pen. And I won't stop you if you need to go. If your soul cannot survive this machine, I will personally sign your exit papers as a witness. But please... please don't think you were an extra. Don't think you were a variable. You were the only reason the green basement didn't drive me crazy. You were the only person who saw me, not Seventeen's Wonwoo. If you leave, leave because you want a bigger world, Y/N-ah. Don't leave because you think we don't know the color of your eyes."
He fell silent then, his hands remaining on her cheeks, his forehead leaning forward until it rested gently against hers. The rain continued to smash against the glass, a chaotic wall of sound that shut out the rest of the universe, leaving the two of them entirely alone in the wreckage of six years of unspoken devotion.
WARNING: This story contains heavy dark romance and mature themes, like severe domestic abuse (historical/backstory), physical violence, kidnapping, coercion and hostage situations, intense gun violence, and grief/loss of a parent. It features a stark power dynamic and characters driven by vengeance.
sypnosis:
Left behind to answer for the millions stolen by her ruthless, deceased father, YN is dragged from her cellar prison straight into a gilded cage controlled by Kim Mingyu, the unforgiving leader of the elite syndicate Seventeen. To protect her frail, hospitalized mother, she is forced to play the part of a cold mafia princess, signing away her family's territories to a man who claims he has no use for a conscience. As the heavy weight of her family’s dark inheritance presses down on her, the unyielding ice between captor and captive begins to fracture in unexpected ways.
Mingyu’s POV
The smoke in the underground lounge of The Diamond Room always tasted like expensive tobacco and cheap loyalty.
I leaned back against the leather sofa, resting my ankles on the mahogany coffee table. Beside me, Wonwoo was silently flipping through a ledger, the glow of his tablet casting a sharp, clinical light over his glasses. Across the room, Hoshi was aggressively arguing with DK about the perimeter security for our northern territory, their voices a chaotic hum against the low jazz playing from the speakers.
"Boss," Coups said, stepping into the room. The heavy oak door clicked shut behind him, cutting off the muffled bass from the club upstairs. His expression was tight, the kind of look that meant a headache was coming. "The Han family is moving assets again. The old man is trying to claw back the west side docks."
I paused, a gold lighter hovering inches from the tip of my cigarette. "He still has men to spare? I thought we bled him dry five years ago."
"He’s desperate, Mingyu. A desperate beast is sloppy," Coups replied, pouring himself a drink from the crystal decanter on my desk. "Ever since his son, Minjun, died back then, the Han organization has been a sinking ship. The old man’s lost his mind, burning through money and men just to keep his reputation alive."
Minjun. I remembered him. He was a decent kid smart enough to know his father was a tyrant, but stupid enough to die for him anyway in that border skirmish years ago. His death was the turning point that broke the Han family’s back and solidified Seventeen’s control over the city.
"Is there anyone left in his bloodline to inherit what's left?" I asked, clicking the lighter closed without lighting the cigarette.
Wonwoo shook his head, not looking up from his screen. "No. Minjun was an only child. Han's wife is still alive, but she’s a recluse never leaves the mansion on the hill. As far as the syndicates are concerned, the Han line dies with the old man."
I stared at the unlit cigarette in my hand. To me, the Han family was just a dying empire, a ghost town we had already conquered. I didn't know, and frankly didn't care, about the inner workings of their house. All I knew was that Chairman Han was a dead man walking, and I was just waiting for him to take his final, fatal step.
"Keep an eye on the docks," I commanded softly, tossing the cigarette onto the table. "If he wants to throw the last of his men into a meat grinder, we’ll be happy to turn the crank."
Y/N POV
The grandfather clock in the grand hallway ticked like a countdown to an explosion.
Five years. It had been five years since Minjun’s body was brought home in a satin-lined casket, his chest torn apart by a mafia war you had never understood. Your older brother had been your shield, the only person who stood between you and the suffocating darkness of this house. When he died, the world outside forgot you even existed. Your father took your name off every public record, locked the iron gates, and hid you away like a shameful secret. To the world, the Han family had no daughter. You were a ghost.
"You're pathetic," your father’s voice boomed from the dining room, followed by the terrifying, sharp clink of silver hitting porcelain.
You sat frozen in the armchair in the library, your knees pulled tightly to your chest. Through the cracked door, you could see your mother. She looked like a porcelain doll someone had repeatedly dropped and glued back together. Her eyes were hollow, staring fixedly at her plate while your father towered over her, his face contorted in a volatile, drunken rage.
"Look at me when I'm speaking to you!" he roared, slamming his fist onto the table. The wine glasses rattled. "Your son is dead because he was weak, and you... you give me nothing but silence! I am surrounded by useless women!"
Your mother didn't flinch. She had passed the point of flinching years ago; she had gone completely numb. That was what terrified you the most. She let him hurt her just so she wouldn't have to look at him.
Suddenly, your father’s heavy footsteps echoed across the hardwood floor, turning toward the library. The door swung open, and his bloodshot eyes locked onto you. The stench of expensive whiskey and rotting malice rolled off him in waves.
"And you," he spat, walking over to grip your chin in a rough, bruising hold. He forced your face upward, his fingers digging deep into your jaw line. "Sitting in the dark like a ghost. You look just like him. Every time I look at you, I remember that I lost my heir and I'm left with a parasite."
"Then let us go," you whispered, your voice raw, tears pricking the corners of your eyes but refusing to fall. You wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing you cry. "If we are so useless to you, let me and Mom leave."
Slap.
The force of his palm against your cheek knocked you completely out of the chair. You hit the thick Persian rug, your shoulder radiating sharp pain as your lip split against your teeth. The metallic taste of blood immediately filled your mouth.
"Leave?" your father laughed, a chaotic, manic sound that made your skin crawl. He kicked a fallen book out of his way, towering over you like a demon. "You belong to this house. You will stay here, and you will endure whatever I give you, because without my name, you are absolutely nothing. If either of you tries to step foot outside these gates, I'll make sure you end up next to Minjun."
He turned on his heel, slamming the library door shut behind him, leaving you alone in the dim, suffocating silence.
You crawled over to the wall, pulling your knees back to your chest, wiping the blood from your lip with the back of your hand. You stared out the high, barred window of the library, looking past the iron gates of the estate toward the glowing lights of the city skyline below.
Somewhere out there was Kim Mingyu the man your father cursed every single night, the head of the organization that had broken the Han family empire. You had never met him. He didn't even know you existed. You were just a nameless girl trapped in a burning house, praying for the fire to finally consume everything.
The morning after was always the quietest. The sun would filter through the heavy velvet drapes of the mansion, casting long, dusty beams across the expensive furniture, making the house look almost peaceful. But it was an illusion. The air still held the faint scent of stale whiskey and the suffocating pressure of a storm that had only temporarily passed.
I stood at the top of the grand staircase, my hand gripping the cold marble balustrade. My jaw throbbed, a dull, deep ache from where his hand had clamped down the night before, and my lower lip was swollen.
From below, I heard the faint, rhythmic sound of a porcelain teacup rattling against a saucer.
I hurried down the stairs, keeping my footsteps light, almost weightless. I found my mother sitting in the morning room. The breakfast table was immaculately set for three, though my father’s chair was empty he was likely still asleep in his wing of the house, dead to the world after his binger.
My mother sat perfectly rigid, her frail frame swallowed by a silk dressing gown. Her face was stark white, save for the dark, purple-yellow bruising peeking out from beneath the thick layer of foundation she had frantically smeared over her cheekbone. Her hands trembled so violently that the tea she was trying to drink splashed over the rim of the cup, staining the white linen tablecloth.
"Mom," I breathed, rushing to her side. I gently took the cup from her fingers and set it down before she could burn herself. "Mom, look at me."
She didn't look up. Her glazed eyes remained fixed on the stain on the tablecloth. "He’s going to the docks today," she whispered, her voice sounding like dry leaves scraping against concrete. "He was screaming about the Kim family all night, YN. He said they took everything from him. He said Minjun is looking down on him, calling him a coward."
A cold dread pooled in my stomach. When my father got like this obsessed with the ghosts of his past and the empire he had lost to Kim Mingyu the violence always escalated.
"We need to go," I urged, grabbing her cold, frail hands. "While he's asleep. We can take the old sedan from the back garage. We can go to the countryside, change our names-"
"Go where?!"
The voice boomed from the doorway, shattering the fragile morning silence like a brick through a window.
My heart violently stopped. I turned to see my father standing there. His silk shirt was unbuttoned, his hair disheveled, and his eyes bloodshot, radiating a chaotic, volatile malice. He was holding a leather crop he usually kept in the stables.
"You think you can run from me?" he sneered, his voice dropping into a terrifying, gravelly register as he walked into the room. His heavy footsteps seemed to shake the very foundations of the house. "You think you can take my property and just walk away?"
"Please," my mother whimpered, finally looking up, her voice cracking as she threw herself in front of me. "Please, Han. She didn't mean it. She's just a child, she doesn't know what she's saying-"
"Shut up!" he roared, swinging his arm out.
The heavy leather crop struck my mother across the shoulder. She screamed, collapsing to the floor, her hands flying up to cover her head.
"Don't touch her!" I screamed, a sudden, desperate surge of adrenaline overriding my terror. I lunged forward, grabbing his arm, digging my fingernails into his skin. "Stop it! You monster! Kill me instead, just stop touching her!"
His gaze snapped to me, completely devoid of any human emotion. "Kill you? No. Death is too good for a disappointment."
He grabbed a handful of my hair, ripping me away from my mother with a force that made my scalp feel like it was tearing open. I gasped, choking on a sob as he dragged me across the dining room floor. The heels of my shoes dug uselessly into the hardwood. My mother was on her knees, crying out, reaching for me with trembling hands, but she was too weak, too broken to stop him.
He dragged me down the dark, narrow hallway toward the basement stairs the place where he kept the wine cellars, and the cold, windowless storage rooms.
"You want to act like a ghost, YN?" he hissed, shoving me violently down the wooden stairs.
I tumbled down the first few steps, my elbows and knees cracking painfully against the wood before I slammed onto the cold concrete floor of the basement. The darkness down here was thick and smelled of damp earth and rot.
"Then live like one," he shouted.
The heavy oak basement door slammed shut above me. A second later, the loud, definitive click of the deadbolt echoing through the wood signaled my imprisonment.
I lay on the freezing concrete, gasping for air, the darkness pressing down on my chest like a physical weight. High up on the wall, a tiny, rectangular coal chute window showed a sliver of the grey, overcast sky.
I pulled my bruised knees to my chest, a single tear finally escaping and tracking through the dust on my cheek. I was buried alive. And out there, in the city, the war between my father and the Kim organization was reaching its boiling point. I just didn't know that the explosion would soon blow the doors of my prison wide open.
Mingyu’s POV
"He’s completely unhinged," S.Coups said, tossing a bundle of surveillance photographs onto the polished glass of the conference table.
I looked down. The photos showed Chairman Han’s remaining enforcers loading heavy crates into unmarked vans. But what caught my attention was Han himself. In the grainy, long-lens shots, his face was manic. He was sweating, pacing back and forth, holding a firearm openly in broad daylight. He looked like a man who had lost his grip on reality.
"Our scouts at the west docks say he’s moving his entire remaining arsenal there tonight," Wonwoo added, adjusting his glasses as he looked over a digital map of the city. "He knows we've choked out his supply lines. This isn't a strategic move, Mingyu. This is a suicide mission. He’s looking to take out as many of our men as possible before he goes under."
I leaned back in my chair, tapping my fingers rhythmically against the armrest. The rest of Seventeen sat around the table, their expressions a mix of boredom and lethal readiness.
"He's trying to force our hand," Hoshi muttered, leaning forward, a dangerous spark in his eyes. "He wants a bloodbath. Let's give it to him. I can have the strike team ready in ten minutes."
"No," I countered, my voice quiet but commanding enough to instantly silence the room. "If we hit him in the open, the police will have to get involved, and that’s sloppy. We wait until he’s at the docks. We let him think he’s setting an ambush. Then, we cut off his exits."
"What about his estate?" Joshua asked from the corner, swirling a glass of water. "The mansion on the hill. It’s completely unguarded right now. All his men are deployed to the docks."
I paused. For some reason, the image of that dark, isolated fortress flickered in my mind. The rumors of the reclusive wife, the ghost town of a family.
"Leave a small clean-up crew to secure the mansion after we finish Han," I ordered carelessly. "Search his office for any leftover ledgers or offshore accounts we can seize. If there’s anyone inside, clear them out. I want the Han name erased from this city by sunrise."
"Understood," S.Coups nodded, standing up and checking his firearm. "Let’s go end this."
I stood up, pulling on my heavy black overcoat, the leather smelling of rain and impending ash. I didn't care about the Han family. I didn't care about the old man’s madness. But as we walked out toward the convoy of black SUVs, a strange, prickling sensation washed over the back of my neck.
Chaos was coming, and the city was about to burn.
The rain didn't wash away the smell of copper. It only made it heavier, pressing the scent of blood and cheap gasoline deep into the fabric of my black overcoat as I walked away from the shipping containers.
Behind me, the warehouse was a graveyard of Han’s final, desperate gamble. His body lay twisted on the concrete, the single bullet hole between his eyes staring blankly at the corrugated iron ceiling. S.Coups was already signaling the cleanup vans, his voice a low, steady rumble over the encrypted comms channel. Dokyeom and Seungkwan began the grim process of sweeping the floor for any stragglers, their boots splashing through puddles of rainwater and spilled fuel.
"Get the cars ready," I muttered to Joshua, wiping a mixture of rain and sweat from my forehead with the back of my leather glove. "I want to be back at The Diamond Room before the docks are crawling with flashing blue lights."
"Already on it," Joshua replied, nodding toward the open rolling steel doors where our fleet of black SUVs idled, their exhaust pipes spitting white plumes of steam into the freezing night air.
I climbed into the back seat of the lead vehicle, the leather cold against my thighs. S.Coups slid into the front passenger seat, pulling out his tablet to monitor the city’s police frequencies. The engine purred, the tires splashing through the deep puddles of the industrial district as we pulled away from Warehouse 4, leaving the ghosts of the Han syndicate behind us.
For ten minutes, the city was nothing but a blur of grey concrete and bleeding neon signs through the rain-streaked glass. The silence inside the car was comfortable the silence of a completed job. The Han family was gone. The West Docks were ours. The ledger was clean.
I pulled out a cigarette, flicking my gold lighter. The small flame illuminated the interior of the SUV, catching the sharp angles of S.Coups’ jaw as he checked his watch.
"We should look into Han’s personal accounts tomorrow," S.Coups murmured, not turning around. "The old man was bleeding cash, but he must have hidden assets somewhere. A mansion like that doesn't run on air."
"Let Wonwoo handle it," I replied, exhaling a thick plume of smoke that swirled against the bulletproof glass. "He can strip the estate down to the bone. I want the deed transferred by the end of the week."
Everything felt perfectly in place. The city belonged to Seventeen. We had dismantled a decades-old crime family in a single evening, and yet, as I watched the streetlights blink past, a strange, hollow feeling settled into the pit of my stomach. Han had broken too easily. For a man who had ruled the northern borders with an iron fist, his final stand at the docks felt... theatrical.
Beside me, the car's built-in tactical monitor flickered. A notification popped up from our central distribution hub the high-security facility where we housed our primary drug shipments, the synthetic formulas, and the offshore ledger keys that held the names of every corrupt politician on our payroll.
I glanced at the log. The names listed for the rotation were under S.Coups' direct command. Everything looked normal. The timestamps matched, the digital signatures were valid. But something buried deep in my gut, an instinct sharpened by years of surviving in the dark, flared up.
I leaned forward, tapping S.Coups on the shoulder. "Call the hub. Check in with the front gate."
S.Coups frowned, tapping his earpiece. "Mingyu, it's fine. Hoshi's guys are holding the perimeter there while we're out." He clicked the line anyway. "Hub command, this is Coups. Give me a status report on the sector four vault."
Static.
S.Coups adjusted the dial on his wrist console. "Hub command, do you copy? This is Leader One."
Nothing but the empty, white hiss of a dead frequency filled the car.
S.Coups’ face went taut. He frantically began tapping his tablet, trying to force open the live CCTV feeds of our own headquarters. The screen buffered, a spinning red circle mocking us before a bold text flashed across the screen: CONNECTION TIMED OUT. SERVER ACCESS DENIED.
"What the hell is this?" S.Coups hissed, his fingers flying across the glass. "The firewall is completely locked out from the inside. Mingyu, the system says my encryption codes are invalid."
"Try the backup servers," I commanded, my voice dropping into a dangerously calm register. I threw my half-smoked cigarette onto the floorboard, crushing it beneath my boot. The dark, chaotic realization was slowly beginning to piece itself together in my mind.
"I can't," S.Coups muttered, a bead of sweat breaking out near his temple. "It's a total blackout. I can't reach the guards. I can't reach the vault."
It wasn't a system glitch.
At that exact moment, the lead SUV’s dashboard console didn't just beep; it screeched. A harsh, high-pitched frequency tore through the speakers, overriding our primary encrypted network.
"Mingyu!"
It was Minghao. His voice was usually a smooth, unshakeable river cold, precise, and entirely unbothered by violence. Tonight, it was a jagged blade, his breathing ragged and heavy over the line. In the background, I could hear the distinct, deafening roar of a modified motorcycle engine pushing its absolute limits, tearing through the downpour.
"Minghao, report," I said, my knuckles turning white as I gripped the back of S.Coups’ seat. "Are you at the Han estate?"
"No," Minghao hissed, a blast of wind distortion cutting through his words before his voice stabilized. "Mingyu, listen to me very carefully. Do not go back to the club. Do not trust the security detail currently guarding your vault. Turn the convoy around right now!"
"We're already locked out of the hub, Minghao," I growled. "What happened?"
"It’s a trap, Mingyu! The whole night was a setup!" Minghao shouted over the mechanical scream of his bike. "We were setting up the perimeter at the Han mansion, preparing to search the offices, when Jun noticed something wrong with the security logs. Three of the tactical vans that were supposed to be reinforcing your docks tonight? They never arrived at the harbor. We tracked their GPS spikes manually through a secondary satellite."
"They went straight to my private estate," I finished for him, the blood in my veins turning to absolute ice.
"They're already inside your vault, Mingyu," Minghao explained, his tone dropping into a terrifyingly rapid whisper as he took a sharp turn, the sound of tires screeching against wet asphalt bleeding through the mic. "Han didn't bring thirty men to the docks tonight. He only brought twenty. The other ten? They’ve been wearing our tactical gear for three weeks. They infiltrated our lower ranks during the northern docks raid. They didn't show up to the harbor because they were waiting for you to leave The Diamond Room completely unguarded."
The pieces fell into place with a sickening, heavy thud.
Chairman Han hadn't been manic out of madness; he had been manic out of theater. He had stood on top of those shipping containers, screaming my name like a lunatic, drawing every high-ranking member of Seventeen to the water's edge just to act as a massive, bloody distraction. He had sacrificed his own remaining loyal soldiers he had sacrificed his own life just to buy his moles enough time to gut my empire from the inside out.
"They’re stripping the vault right now," Minghao continued, the urgency in his voice cutting through the shock in the car. "The money, the synthetic formulas, the blackmail ledgers on the senate they're taking everything. And they aren't using the main roads to escape. They’re routing the stolen cargo back through the old industrial sewage tunnels beneath the city. The tunnels lead directly into the private underground garage of the Han mansion."
"They're taking my own product back to the old man's house," I whispered, a white-hot, chaotic rage narrowing my vision.
"Yes! They think because Han is dead, we won't bother checking their house until tomorrow morning," Minghao said. "They're going to load the transport vans from his private basement and cross the state border before sunrise. If they get those ledgers across the line, the entire syndicate is exposed to the federal courts. We have less than fifteen minutes before they load the trucks."
I didn't waste another millisecond. I lunged forward, slamming my fist against the driver’s headrest. "Turn the car around! Now!"
The driver slammed on the brakes. The heavy, armored SUV skidded violently across the slick, rain-soaked asphalt, the tires screaming in protest before the traction caught, swinging the massive vehicle in a chaotic, whiplash-inducing 180-degree turn. The rest of the convoy behind us followed suit in a flawless, terrifying synchronization, their headlights cutting through the dark like a pack of hunting wolves.
"Seungcheol," I barked, my voice sounding like a gunshot in the cramped space of the car. "Get Hoshi and the strike team on the line. Tell them to abandon the dock cleanup entirely. I want every single weapon we own pointed at the Han estate. If a single one of those moles tries to leave that hill, I want them torn to pieces."
"And the family? The wife?" S.Coups asked, his hands trembling slightly as he loaded a fresh, high-caliber drum magazine into his automatic rifle. "If they're still inside that house-"
"I don't care who is inside that house," I snarled, looking out the window as the distant silhouette of the Han mansion loomed on the highest hill of the city, a dark, skeletal crown beneath the flashing lightning. "If they are touching my possessions, they die with them."
Your POV
The basement was getting colder, or maybe it was just my mother's skin.
She was leaning heavily against my shoulder, her breaths coming in short, rattling gasps that cut through the absolute silence of the coal cellar like a blunt saw. The single, bare lightbulb hanging from the rafters flickered occasionally, casting long, trembling, skeletal shadows across the damp concrete floor.
"YN..." she whispered, her fingers weakly clutching the fabric of my torn red dress. "Listen... listen to the house."
I went perfectly still, tilting my head toward the wooden ceiling boards above.
For the last two hours, the mansion had been completely dead. No heavy footsteps. No manic screaming. No broken glass. But now, a new sound began to vibrate through the foundations. It was a low, rhythmic thrumming that shook the dust from the rafters, settling into my hair like grey snow.
It was the sound of heavy engines. Many of them.
"Is he back?" I whispered, my throat so dry it felt like it was coated in thick sand. "Did he... did he survive the docks?"
"No," my mother murmured, her eyes glazed as she stared at the rusted iron chain padlocked around her bruised ankle. "That's not his car. He always... he always hits the iron gates when he's drunk. Those cars are quiet. Too quiet."
Suddenly, a heavy, metallic thud echoed from directly behind the brick wall the entrance to the private underground garage.
The heavy wooden doors of the cellar room next to us were thrown open with a violent crash. Then came the voices. They weren't my father’s usual enforcers. They sounded frantic, terrified, speaking in sharp, hurried whispers as the heavy scraping of wooden crates being dragged across the floorboards shook the ceiling.
"Move it!" a man shouted from the hallway directly above the basement stairs. "The Kim family realized what happened at the hubs! Minghao’s motorcycle team is already tracking our tunnel exits! We have less than ten minutes to get these ledgers into the transport vans or Kim Mingyu will skin us alive!"
The Kim family.
I held my breath, my heart hammering against my ribs so hard it felt like it would burst through my skin. Kim Mingyu’s men were here? No... they said they were running from him. They were stealing from the shadow king himself.
"Get the synthetic crates loaded first!" another voice barked from the basement floor. "If we lose the formulas, the buyers in the north won't protect us!"
Before they could drag another crate, the heavy oak basement door at the top of the stairs didn't just open it was blown entirely off its hinges with a deafening, explosive CRACK.
The sound of splintering wood echoed down the stairwell like a bomb going off, immediately followed by the sharp, rhythmic, terrifying patter of automatic gunfire from the main floor of the house. The screams began almost instantly.
"They're here!" someone shrieked from the garage area. "The main convoy is through the gates! Kim Mingyu is-"
A brutal blast of gunfire cut the man’s sentence short. The sound of a heavy body hitting the floorboards directly above my head sent a fresh shower of white plaster down into my face. I pulled my mother closer, shielding her head with my arms, tucking her face into my chest as the chaos exploded through the mansion like a wildfire.
The house was screaming. The very walls seemed to bleed with the sheer volume of the violence the deafening, bass-heavy boom of tactical shotguns, the glass windows shattering in the rooms above, the desperate, dying curses of the men who had tried to play a game with the devil.
Then, the footsteps started down the basement stairs.
They weren't the hurried, frantic steps of the thieves. They were heavy, slow, and terrifyingly deliberate. Each step on the wooden stairs sounded like a countdown, steady and entirely unbothered by the roaring gunfire and bleeding bodies on the floors above.
I squeezed my eyes shut, pressing my back against the damp brick wall of the coal cellar, holding my mother as tight as my trembling arms would allow.
"Please," I prayed into the dark, hot tears finally breaking through my eyelashes, tracking through the dust and dried blood on my cheeks. "Please, just let it be quick. Just don't let him hurt her anymore."
The footsteps stopped at the bottom of the stairs.
The yellow light of the bare bulb was suddenly blocked out by a massive, towering silhouette. The man stood in the narrow doorway of our cellar, the scent of fresh rain, expensive tobacco, and burnt gunpowder rolling off him in a suffocating, alpha wave. In his right hand, he held a long, silver-plated automatic pistol, the barrel smoking slightly in the cold basement air.
I forced myself to look up.
Through the dim, flickering light, my eyes met his. He was incredibly handsome, with sharp, aristocratic features and eyes that looked like two pieces of polished black glass utterly devoid of human warmth, but burning with a quiet, lethal intelligence. His long black overcoat was damp from the rain, his leather gloves stained with fresh, dark smears of blood.
Kim Mingyu.
He didn't look at me at first. His eyes scanned the room, instantly identifying the heavy wooden crates of synthetic drugs and the leather-bound ledgers that the thieves had piled near the door. A cold, satisfied smile touched his lips.
"Found them," he said quietly, his deep baritone voice sending a shiver straight down my spine.
Then, his gaze shifted. He looked into the dark corner of the coal cellar.
He looked at me.
He looked at the torn red velvet dress, the deep purple bruises blooming across my jaw, the split lip that had only recently stopped bleeding, and the frail, half-conscious woman chained to the wooden support beam beside me.
The cold smile vanished from his face instantly. For the first time tonight, the absolute, deadly certainty in his eyes flickered, replaced by a dark, dangerous confusion.
He stepped into the cellar, the heavy leather of his boots crunching against the gravel. He lowered the barrel of his gun just an inch, his eyes locked onto mine.
"Who the hell are you?" he murmured.
"Who am I?" I whispered, my voice scraping against the raw skin of my throat. The terror that had kept me pinned to the floor for hours suddenly burned away, replaced by a reckless, volatile spike of adrenaline. I glared up at him through the tangled mess of my hair, my fingers digging into my mother’s torn gown. "Who the heck are you instead? You walk into my house, slaughtering people, acting like you own the world."
Mingyu’s expression didn't soften. Not even a fraction.
If anything, his jaw clenched, his eyes hardening into stone as he looked down at me. He didn't look like a savior; he looked like the executioner who had just finished off the rest of the building. The silver-plated automatic in his hand didn't waver. He raised it slightly, the barrel pointing directly at the space between my eyes.
"You're in no position to ask questions, sweetheart," Mingyu said, his voice dropping into a low, lethal register that vibrated through the small, damp room. "This isn't your house anymore. Your father died at the docks twenty minutes ago, and everything he owned including whatever is left in this basement belongs to me."
Behind him, S.Coups stepped into the doorway, his tactical rifle held at low-ready. He wiped a splatter of blood from his cheekbone, his eyes shifting from the stolen crates to me and my mother. "Mingyu, we don't have time for this. Hoshi is clearing the garage, but the perimeter isn't completely secure yet. Who are they?"
"I'm trying to find out," Mingyu muttered, not taking his eyes off me. He took another predatory step forward, the heavy leather of his boot coming down inches from my hand. He didn't care about the bruises on my face. He didn't care that my mother was shivering, semi-conscious against my shoulder. To him, we were just unexpected variables in a high-stakes raid. "Han didn't have a daughter on the payroll. Wonwoo's files said the bloodline ended with Minjun."
At the mention of my brother's name, something inside me snapped. "Don't you dare speak his name," I spat, my voice trembling with a chaotic mix of grief and unadulterated rage. "You killed him five years ago. You broke this family. You did this."
Mingyu tilted his head, a cold, entirely humorless smirk touching his lips. "Your father broke this family, girl. I just cleaned up the debris."
He reached down, his grip locking around my upper arm like an iron vise. He didn't pull me up gently; he yanked me to my feet with a brutal, careless force that made my swollen knee buckle. I gasped, choking on the pain as he held me upright, forcing me to face him. His eyes scanned the heavy iron chain padlocked around my mother’s ankle, then traveled back to the split lip and the deep welts on my skin.
He didn't show pity. He showed a calculating, clinical interest.
"Coups," Mingyu commanded, his voice echoing off the brick walls. "Get the bolt cutters for the old woman. Pack the crates into the lead SUV. We’re taking both of them to the headquarters."
"No!" I screamed, twisting violently against his grip, trying to claw at his leather gloves. "Leave her alone! Don't touch her!"
Mingyu didn't even flinch at my struggle. He tightened his hold on my arm until it bruised, pinning my back against his chest so tightly I couldn't breathe. "Listen to me very carefully," he whispered directly into my ear, his breath cold against my skin. "You are the daughter of my enemy, found hidden in a room full of my stolen property. Right now, you are a hostage, an asset, or a liability. Which one you end up being depends entirely on how quiet you keep your mouth on the ride over. Do you understand me?"
I bit my tongue so hard I tasted copper again, glaring at the flickering lightbulb above us as S.Coups walked back up the stairs to fetch the tools. The house above was still bleeding, the distant sounds of Seventeen securing the perimeter a haunting reminder that I hadn't escaped the nightmare at all. I had just been handed over to a different kind of monster.
The cold iron of the bolt cutters bit through the padlocked chain with a sharp, heavy snap. My mother collapsed back against the wooden support beam, gasping, her frail body entirely spent. She couldn't even stand.
"Coups, take the crates," Mingyu ordered, his voice cutting through the damp air like a blade. "I’m taking these two in my car. I want them where I can see them."
"Mingyu, that’s unsafe," S.Coups countered, wiping his brow as his men began hoisting the heavy ledgers. "Let the clean-up crew handle them. We don't know what the girl is carrying."
"She’s carrying nothing but a mouth she doesn't know how to close," Mingyu spat, shoving me toward the basement stairs. He didn't offer a hand to my mother; he simply nodded toward two of his enforcers, who hoisted her up by her arms like a ragdoll.
The walk out of the mansion was a blur of violence. The grand hallways I had grown up in were ruined, the marble floors smeared with dark streaks of blood, the walls riddled with bullet holes. The remaining thieves lay dead or groaning in the shadows. Seventeen had moved through this house like a plague, and Mingyu was the king presiding over the ash.
He dragged me out into the freezing downpour, throwing open the heavy back door of his private, armored sedan. He shoved me into the leather seat first, then watched coldly as his men slid my semi-conscious mother in beside me. The door slammed shut, sealing us in a suffocating, expensive silence that smelled of premium leather and ozone.
A second later, the front door opened, and Mingyu slid into the driver’s seat. He didn't look back at us through the rearview mirror. He started the engine, the powerful V8 motor roaring to life with a low, menacing purr, and threw the car into drive. The tires spun through the mud of the estate, tearing down the hill away from the burning wreckage of the Han empire.
The city lights blinked past the bulletproof glass, a chaotic blur of blue and neon. Inside the car, the air conditioning was crisp, biting into my damp skin, making the welts on my back sting fiercely. My mother’s head slumped against my shoulder, her breathing dangerously shallow, her skin entirely translucent under the passing streetlights.
I looked at her, then looked at the back of Mingyu’s broad shoulders. My chest ached with a mixture of terror and pure desperation. I had to swallow every single ounce of my pride, every bit of the rage that had made me scream at him in the cellar.
"Please," I whispered, my voice cracking, barely audible over the hum of the tires.
Mingyu didn't answer. His large hands remained steady on the steering wheel, his eyes fixed on the dark road ahead. He didn't even adjust the mirror.
"Please," I said louder, my hands trembling as I clutched my mother’s freezing fingers. "Well... at least... can you give my mom some water? She ain't drink nor eat for months. Please... if I may ask that."
For a long, agonizing moment, the only sound was the rhythmic slap of the windshield wipers against the glass. Mingyu didn't soften. His posture remained rigid, his jaw locked in a hard, unyielding line. He didn't look like a man who felt pity; he looked like a man calculating his next move.
Without breaking his gaze from the road, he reached into the center console between the front seats. His gloved hand pulled out a chilled, glass bottle of mineral water. He didn't hand it back gently. He tossed it blindly over his shoulder into the back seat. It hit the leather next to my thigh with a heavy thud.
"Keep her alive until we reach the hub," Mingyu said, his deep baritone cutting through the dark, entirely devoid of warmth. "If she dies in my back seat, you’ll be cleaning the leather with your own hands."
The glass bottle was freezing against my trembling fingers. I frantically twisted the cap off, my knuckles aching, and pressed the rim against my mother’s cracked, bleeding lips. She choked at first, her frail body shuddering as she managed to swallow a few small drops, her eyes remaining closed. I wiped a stray trickle of water from her chin with the edge of my torn red dress, holding her closer against my chest.
Up front, the windshield wipers kept up their rhythmic, hypnotic slap against the glass. Mingyu’s eyes flickered toward the rearview mirror, finally locking onto my reflection in the dark.
"Months?" his voice drifted back, low, rough, and entirely stripped of any empathy. He was analyzing the data, breaking down my words like a puzzle piece that didn't fit. "A mafia boss's estate doesn't run out of food. Why didn't she eat or drink?"
I went perfectly still.
The silence inside the car became heavy, suffocatingly loud. The truth was a jagged, horrific thing the memory of my father locking the pantry doors, the weeks spent surviving on tap water and whatever scraps I could smuggle into the cellar, the systematic starvation he used as a weapon to break my mother’s spirit until she simply stopped asking for food entirely. It was a humiliating, dirty secret. A reality I had endured in the dark while the rest of the city thought the Han family was living in luxury.
I didn't say a word. I clamped my jaw shut, staring fixedly out the side window at the passing neon blur of the industrial district, refusing to give him an answer. I wouldn't give my father’s enemy the satisfaction of knowing just how pathetic and broken we really were.
Mingyu watched me through the mirror for a few more seconds, his dark eyes boring into the side of my face, expecting me to crack. When I kept my gaze locked on the window, his expression hardened further. He didn't ask again. He didn't coax, and he certainly didn't care to comfort me.
"Suit yourself," he muttered, turning his eyes back to the road and stepping harder on the gas. The V8 engine roared, pushing us faster into the dark. "You’ll talk eventually. Everyone talks at the hub."
The car sliced through the torrential rain, ascending a hidden concrete ramp that sloped deep into the belly of an unmarked industrial fortress. The heavy steel blast doors of Seventeen’s central hub rolled down behind us with a definitive, mechanical thud, sealing out the thunderstorm and locking us into a world of polished concrete, bright fluorescent lights, and armed men.
Mingyu threw the sedan into park. He didn't come around to open our door. Instead, he flicked a switch on the dashboard, and the heavy locks clicked open.
"Out," he commanded, stepping out into the cold garage air before the word had even finished echoing in the cabin.
The door was ripped open from the outside by Vernon, who stood ready with a medical stretcher, flanked by Wonwoo and a quiet, imposing man with long hair (Jeonghan) who was already donning latex gloves.
"Get the mother onto the gurney," Mingyu ordered, walking past them without looking back, his heavy boots clicking rhythmically against the floor. "Put her in the medical wing under third-tier lockdown. Keep her alive, but chain the bed to the floor bolts. I don't trust a single thing that breathes out of the Han estate."
"What about the girl?" Wonwoo asked, his eyes sweeping over my torn red velvet gown, the dirt caked into my skin, and the stubborn defiance still burning in my stare.
"She’s coming with me to the interrogation block," Mingyu said, his voice a flat line. "If she won't talk about why her father was starving them, she can explain what else Han was hiding before he died."
Two guards grabbed my shoulders, hauling me out of the leather seat. My swollen knee buckled instantly, sending a sharp, nauseating jolt of pain up my spine. I staggered, but the guards didn't check my stride; they dragged me forward, my heels scraping helplessly against the concrete.
"Mom!" I cried out, my voice cracking as I twisted my head around. I watched through the haze of my tears as Jeonghan and Vernon wheeled her away down a sterile corridor, her frail hand falling limply off the side of the mattress. "Don't touch her! Please!"
"Save your breath," Mingyu growled from ahead of me.
He led the way down a long, white hallway lined with reinforced steel doors until we reached a room marked Sector 4-B. The guards shoved me inside. The room was stark just a cold metal table bolted to the floor, two matching chairs, and a massive two-way mirror that hummed with the silent recording of security cameras.
The guards forced me into one of the chairs. A heavy iron cuff was clamped around my left wrist, securing me to a metal ring embedded in the center of the table.
Mingyu walked in behind them, tossing his blood-stained leather gloves onto the metal surface with a sharp slap. He didn't sit down. He stood directly over me, his massive frame completely blocking out the harsh overhead light, casting me in his shadow.
"We can do this two ways, YN," he said, leaning forward until his sharp, aristocratic face was inches from mine. The smell of rain and burnt gunpowder still clung to his collar. "You can tell me exactly what your father's true contingency plan was, or I can let my interrogation team find out. And let me assure you, they aren't interested in your family history."
I glared up at him, my jaw clenched so tightly it throbbed, completely silent.
Mingyu stared back, his dark eyes like ice, refusing to soften even a fraction. The chaos of the night was over, but my nightmare under the shadow king was just beginning.
"Well, I don't know anything," I said, my voice dropping into a flat, exhausted whisper. I leaned back into the cold metal of the chair, my eyes tracking the tiny, slow drip of blood falling from my split lip onto the front of my ruined red gown. "So it's a waste of your time."
Mingyu didn't move. He didn't blink. He just stayed leaned over the table, his shadow swallowing me whole, his face perfectly still like a statue carved out of malice.
"A waste of time," he repeated, the words rolling off his tongue slowly, tasting like a threat. He tilted his head, a terrifyingly quiet, humorless smile breaking the corner of his lips. "You think your ignorance protects you, YN? In my world, knowing nothing just makes you useless. And useless things get thrown away."
He stood up straight, pulling a heavy silver pen from his breast pocket and tapping it lazily against the steel table. Click. Click. Click. The sound echoed sharply in the sterile room.
Behind the two-way mirror, I could hear the faint, muffled hum of the hub's ventilation system, a reminder of how deep underground we were. No one was coming for me. My father was dead, my brother was a ghost, and my mother was chained to a hospital bed down the hall.
"Let's look at the facts," Mingyu said, his voice entirely clinical as he began to pace the length of the room, his heavy leather boots dragging with a slow, predatory rhythm. "Your father ran a multi-million dollar syndicate. He managed to hide a daughter from Seventeen’s intelligence network for five years. He successfully infiltrated my lower ranks with ten moles who almost walked away with my life's work tonight. And you want me to believe that you the person living under his roof, breathing his air know absolutely nothing about his offshore contacts?"
"I was locked in a basement!" I screamed, the last string of my composure snapping. The iron cuff around my wrist rattled violently against the steel ring as I lunged forward as far as the chain would allow. "He starved us! He beat us! He looked at me every day and told me he wished I had died instead of Minjun! Do you honestly think he sat down and discussed his business strategy with a daughter he treated like a parasite?!"
The outburst left me panting, my chest heaving against the tight fabric of my dress, the hot tears finally spilling over my lower lids and tracking through the grime on my face.
Mingyu stopped pacing. He turned slowly, his dark, impenetrable eyes scanning my shaking frame. He looked at the frantic, desperate rage in my eyes, then down at my bleeding lip, and finally at the bruised wrist straining against his iron cuff.
He didn't look sorry. He didn't look horrified by what my father had done. He simply walked back to the table, picked up his leather gloves, and pulled them back over his large hands, smoothing down the leather with meticulous care.
"Sounds like an effective way to keep a secret," Mingyu murmured, his voice cold and entirely unbothered by my pain. He turned toward the heavy steel door, his overcoat swirling behind him. "We'll see if your memory improves after a few hours of isolation. Don't get too comfortable, sweetheart. The night is still very young."
The heavy door slammed shut behind him, the mechanical lock throwing into place with a definitive, crushing sound that left me completely alone in the blinding white light.
The ticking of the digital clock on the interrogation room wall was the only proof that the world hadn’t stopped entirely. One hour. Two hours. Three.
The blinding fluorescent lights didn't flicker; they just hummed, a low, maddening vibration that drilled straight into my skull. My swollen knee had gone completely numb, replaced by a dull, throbbing ache that radiated all the way up to my hip. Every time I tried to shift my weight, the iron cuff around my wrist would bite deeper into my skin, leaving a raw, bloody ring.
I closed my eyes, leaning my forehead against the freezing metal table. In the dark of my own mind, the chaos of the night replayed like a broken film reel. The sound of my father’s palm cracking against my face. The sickening snap of the bolt cutters. The smell of rain and expensive tobacco on Kim Mingyu's coat.
“Useless things get thrown away.” His voice echoed in my head, cold and precise.
Suddenly, the heavy mechanical lock on the door disengaged with a loud, echoing thud.
I didn't lift my head immediately. I didn't want to give them the satisfaction of seeing the terror in my eyes. But the footsteps that entered the room weren't Mingyu’s heavy, slow strides. They were lighter, more measured.
"Get her up," a voice commanded. It was Wonwoo.
Two large guards stepped up to the table, unlocking the iron cuff from the steel ring. Before I could even attempt to stand on my own, they grabbed my upper arms and hauled me out of the chair. My legs instantly gave out, my bad knee buckling beneath me, but they simply dragged me across the floor, my ruined red velvet gown trailing behind me like a bloodstain.
They didn't take me deeper into the interrogation block. Instead, they dragged me down a series of sterile, white corridors, eventually stopping in front of a pair of heavy double doors guarded by two heavily armed men.
The doors swung open, and I was thrown inside.
I hit the floor hard, my elbows scraping against a plush, dark carpet. I gasped for air, pushing myself up with trembling hands. When I looked up, I realized I wasn't in a prison cell. I was in a massive, sprawling private office. The walls were lined with dark mahogany bookshelves, and a floor-to-ceiling glass window overlooked the rain-slicked skyline of the city.
Sitting behind a massive desk was Mingyu.
He had taken off his heavy black overcoat and rolled his white dress shirt sleeves up to his elbows, revealing the sharp, muscular lines of his forearms. He was looking over a glowing tablet, a glass of dark amber whiskey sitting untouched beside a stack of leather-bound ledgers—the very ledgers his men had recovered from my father's basement.
Standing around the room were the other members of Seventeen. S.Coups was leaning against the wall by the door, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes fixed on me. Jun and Minghao stood by the window, their expressions unreadable, while Joshua quietly poured fresh water into a crystal glass near the bar.
"The medical report just came back," Wonwoo said, stepping up to Mingyu's desk and dropping a digital folder onto the wood. His voice was entirely devoid of emotion, though his eyes flickered toward me for a fraction of a second. "The mother is stable, but severely malnourished. Organ stress, severe muscle atrophy, multiple healed fractures across her ribs and collarbone that were never properly set. The daughter’s file is similar. Soft tissue damage, a hairline fracture in the left patella, and chronic starvation markers."
The room went completely silent.
I kept my eyes glued to the carpet, my fingers clutching the fabric of my dress. Hearing my own abuse read aloud like a clinical grocery list by my father's executioners felt like a brand new kind of torture.
Mingyu didn't look at the folder. He slowly raised his eyes from his tablet, his dark, impenetrable gaze locking onto my shivering frame on the floor. He didn't soften. The grim medical reality of what we had endured didn't bring a single ounce of pity to his face. To a man like him, pain was just a currency.
"So you weren't lying about the basement," Mingyu said, his deep baritone cutting through the quiet of the office. He picked up his whiskey glass, swirling the amber liquid slowly. "But that still doesn't mean you're useless to me, YN."
I forced my jaw to clench, lifting my chin to look him dead in the eye despite the hot tears pricking the corners of my vision. "I told you. I don't know anything about his accounts. Kill me if you're going to do it, but leave my mother alone."
"Kill you?" Mingyu tilted his head, a cold, calculating smirk playing on his lips as he set the glass back down. "Dead people don't pay debts, sweetheart. Your father stole tens of millions of dollars worth of my product, and he died before he could return it. The Han syndicate is liquidated, but the debt remains."
He rose from his chair, his massive frame instantly dominating the room as he walked around the desk. He stopped just a foot away from where I knelt on the floor, towering over me like a dark god.
"Your father might not have trusted you with his ledgers," Mingyu murmured, his voice dropping into a low, lethal whisper that made the hairs on my arms stand up. "But the syndicates in the north don't know that. To them, you are still the last living blood of the Han family. You are a token. An asset."
He reached down, his large, gloved hand gripping my chin tightly, forcing my face upward. His thumb brushed right over the deep purple bruise on my jaw, his grip firm enough to keep me from pulling away, entirely unbothered by the fact that I was trembling.
"From tonight on, you and your mother belong to Seventeen," Mingyu stated, his eyes boring into mine with a terrifying, absolute authority. "You will live under my roof. You will breathe my air. And you will do exactly what I tell you to do until every single cent your father stole is paid back in blood. Welcome to your new cage, YN."
The pressure of his thumb against my bruised jaw was a brutal reminder of where I stood. I didn't pull away I couldn't. I just stared back into those bottomless black eyes, my breathing shallow, my heart thudding against my ribs like a trapped bird.
"I'd rather die," I whispered, the words tasting like copper and ash on my tongue.
Mingyu didn't blink. He didn't tighten his grip, but he didn't loosen it either. His face remained a mask of pure, unyielding stone. "Death is a luxury you haven't earned, YN. And frankly, I don't give a damn what you'd rather do."
He abruptly let go of my chin, tossing his hand out as if he had just touched something insignificant. He turned his back to me, walking over to the floor-to-ceiling window where the rain was still violently lashing against the glass. The city lights below reflected off his white shirt, making his broad shoulders look like a silhouette against a burning skyline.
"Wonwoo," Mingyu called out, his voice cutting through the quiet hum of the office. "Take her to the residential block. Third floor, end of the hall. Put a guard on the door twenty-four-seven. If she so much as looks at a window the wrong way, lock her in the holding cells."
"What about her medical treatment?" Wonwoo asked, his fingers already hovering over his tablet to log the command.
"Fix her knee," Mingyu said coldly, not turning around. "Feed her. I have no use for an asset that breaks before I can use it. But the moment she can walk on her own, she starts working off what her father owes me."
"Understood," Wonwoo replied. He nodded to the two guards standing by the double doors.
Before I could even attempt to prepare myself, the guards grabbed me by the arms again. The sudden movement sent another nauseating spike of agony through my fractured kneepiece. I choked back a scream, my teeth digging into my lower lip until it bled afresh, my feet dragging limply across the plush carpet as they hauled me toward the exit.
As the heavy mahogany doors of his office began to swing shut, I cast one last look over my shoulder.
Kim Mingyu hadn't moved. He stood there, staring out at his empire, a king entirely unbothered by the lives he crushed beneath his boots. He didn't look back at me. He didn't care. To him, my mother and I weren't people who had survived hell; we were just salvaged property from a house he had burned to the ground.
The guards dragged me down a separate elevator bank, the metallic walls reflecting my ruined state a girl in a torn red velvet gown, covered in dirt and bruises, being escorted into a brand new prison.
The residential block didn't look like a jail, which somehow made it worse. It looked like a luxury hotel, all muted grey tones, soft carpet, and recessed lighting. But there were no handles on the inside of the heavy oak doors, and every hallway was monitored by high-definition cameras.
They threw open the door to the last room at the end of the corridor and shoved me inside.
I collapsed onto the floor, the heavy wooden door slamming shut behind me with a definitive, motorized click. A second later, the heavy thud of a deadbolt sliding into place echoed through the room.
I lay there in the dark for a long time, the silence of the room pressing into my ears. Slowly, agonizingly, I dragged myself over to the large bed in the center of the room, pulling my body up using the crisp, expensive sheets. I crawled to the headboard, curling my bruised knees back up to my chest, burying my face in my hands.
The house on the hill was gone. My father was dead. My brother was a ghost. And now, my mother and I were entirely at the mercy of the most ruthless organization in the city. I pulled the blanket tightly around my shoulders, shivering violently in the dark, wondering how much blood it would take to finally pay off a dead man's debt.
Seven days passed in a blur of sterile silence and the sharp tang of antiseptic.
The residential block was a gilded cage, but it was functional. A quiet doctor from Seventeen’s medical wing had visited twice to bind my fractured kneecap, pumping fluids and nutrients into my collapsed veins until my skin no longer looked translucent. They brought food three times a day heavy, protein-rich meals that my shrunken stomach initially rejected, cramping in violent protest before finally accepting the nourishment.
My mother was still in the medical wing below. They wouldn't let me see her, but every morning, Wonwoo would slide a printed vitals sheet under my door. She was recovering, but she was still a prisoner, a tether keeping me entirely compliant.
On the eighth night, the motorized deadbolt on my door clicked open at precisely midnight.
I was sitting on the edge of the mattress, wearing the plain, oversized black clothes they had provided to replace my ruined red gown. I braced my hands against the mattress as the door swung inward.
Mingyu stepped into the room.
He had discarded his formal suit jackets, wearing only a tailored charcoal dress shirt with the top two buttons undone, his dark hair slightly messy as if he had been awake for days. He didn't look tired, though. His posture was as commanding as ever, his eyes sweeping over me with the same cold, assessing gaze he used on the ledger books. Behind him, S.Coups stood in the hallway, arms crossed, keeping watch.
Mingyu didn't say hello. He walked to the center of the room, pulled out a heavy leather folder from under his arm, and dropped it onto the small wooden table near the bed.
"A week is enough time to heal a hairline fracture," Mingyu said, his deep baritone cutting through the quiet room. "Your mother's vitals are stable. The debt hasn't shrunk, YN. It’s time to see what you can bring to the table."
I looked at the folder, then looked up at him. The physical pain had lessened over the week, but the raw, suffocating unfairness of everything we had endured bubbled right back to the surface. My hands clenched into fists against the bedsheets.
"Why are you doing this?" I demanded, my voice trembling but sharp, breaking the quiet air. "We ain't even a part of my father's organization. We didn't touch your money. We didn't know about your drugs. You're evil."
Mingyu didn't flinch. He didn't blink or show a single flicker of guilt. He simply tilted his head, looking down at me as if I were a child crying over a broken toy.
"Evil?" he repeated, a low, humorless huff escaping his lips. He stepped closer, towering over the edge of the bed, his shadow instantly falling over my lap. "Evil is a word for people who have the luxury of a conscience, YN. I run an empire. Your father stole from that empire, and in my world, bloodlines carry liabilities. You carry his name. That makes you his proxy."
"I was his prisoner!" I yelled, staring up at him with unadulterated rage. "He would have killed us if you hadn't! We had nothing to do with him!"
"The Northern syndicates don't care about your domestic trauma," Mingyu said, his voice completely flat, stripped of any empathy. He tapped the leather folder with his index finger. "To them, you are the sole surviving heir of the Han family bloodline. Tomorrow, Han’s remaining political allies are holding a closed-door meeting to redistribute his old territories. You are going to walk into that room, sit beside me, and sign those territories over to Seventeen."
He leaned down slightly, his dark eyes locking onto mine with an ironclad intensity that made my breath catch.
"You think I'm evil? Fine. Call me whatever helps you sleep at night," Mingyu whispered, his face inches from mine. "But you will put on a clean dress, you will look like a mafia boss's daughter, and you will do exactly what I say. Because if you don't bring those territories to my table tomorrow, I will stop paying for your mother’s medical care by noon. Am I making myself clear?"
The silence that followed my submission was heavier than the darkness that had suffocated me in my father’s cellar. I stared up at Kim Mingyu, my hands clenching the rough fabric of the oversized black shirt they had given me until my knuckles ached. The raw, animalistic rage that had carried me through the past week was entirely gone, replaced by a cold, paralyzing dread that pooled deep in my stomach.
"Okay," I whispered. The word felt like broken glass scraping against the raw lining of my throat. I lowered my head, my shoulders slumping as the last remaining wall of my defiance crumbled into dust beneath his gaze. "Okay. I’ll do it. I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll sign the papers. I’ll sit in the room. I’ll be whatever puppet you need me to be."
Mingyu didn't move. He stood perfectly still at the edge of the mattress, a towering silhouette against the minimalist luxury of the room. He didn't offer a nod of approval; he merely watched me, his dark eyes analyzing the exact moment my spirit broke, ensuring it was a genuine surrender and not a tactical retreat.
I swallowed hard, forcing myself to look back up into his handsome, unyielding face. The tears were burning hot behind my eyelids now, but I refused to let them fall in front of him. I reached out, my fingers hovering just inches from the edge of his immaculate trousers, a silent, desperate plea hanging in the air between us.
"But don't hurt my mom," I begged, my voice cracking, dropping into a frantic, breathless register. "Please... don't involve her anymore. She has absolutely nothing to do with this, please. I am asking you, if you have any shred of humanity left in you, just leave her out of it. Even though she was married to him... it was a forced marriage. Her family traded her to the Han organization when she was barely older than I am now. She was a trophy. A punching bag. She didn't choose him. She didn't choose the syndicate. So technically... she did not want to have his name. She hated it. She spent twenty-five years wishing she could erase it. That makes her kinda clean. She’s completely innocent, Mingyu. She’s just a victim who survived."
Mingyu listened to my desperate explanation without a single flicker of emotion crossing his features. The tragic history of my mother’s stolen life didn't move him; it didn't soften the hard, clinical lines around his mouth. To a man who calculated empires in bodies and drug supply routes, the concept of a "forced marriage" or being "clean" was an irrelevant emotional variable.
He slowly reached into his pocket, pulling out a sleek silver cigarette case. He clicked it open, pulled out a dark clove cigarette, and lit it with his gold lighter. The sharp, sweet scent of cloves and premium tobacco immediately filled the sterile air of the bedroom, a hauntingly familiar luxury that reminded me entirely of the night he raided my father’s house.
"Nobody in this city is clean, YN," Mingyu said, exhaling a thick, grey plume of smoke that swirled into the space between us, partially obscuring his cold eyes. "Innocence isn't a shield; it's a liability. Your mother’s trauma doesn't erase the millions of dollars your father took from my vaults. The syndicates don't deal in morality. They deal in blood and assets."
He stepped closer, the polished leather of his boots crushing a stray thread on the carpet. He leaned down, his massive frame completely cutting off the ambient light from the hallway, forcing me to look up at him through the haze of smoke.
"But I am a businessman, not a sadist," he continued, his deep baritone dropping into a terrifyingly steady whisper. "I don't waste my resources or my time torturing broken women who can't fight back. I have no desire to hurt your mother."
A tiny, fragile breath of relief started to leave my chest, but Mingyu caught it, cutting it short as he tapped the ash from his cigarette onto the small wooden table beside the folder.
"However," he murmured, his eyes locking onto mine with the absolute, unshakeable authority of a tyrant. "Her comfort is entirely dependent on your performance. Tomorrow is a theater production, and you are the main actress. You will put on the dress I provide. You will let the stylists cover every single bruise your father left on your face. And when you sit beside me in that boardroom, in front of the northern bosses, you will look like the proud, untouchable heir of the Han family bloodline."
He reached out, his long, gloved fingers gently brushing a stray lock of hair away from my face. The touch wasn't affectionate; it was the clinical handling of a painter adjusting a canvas. His thumb lingered just an inch above my split lip.
"If you hesitate for even a fraction of a second when I tell you to sign those deeds," Mingyu warned, his voice entirely devoid of warmth, "if a single tear falls down your cheek in front of those men, or if you try to signal anyone in that room for help... S.Coups will receive a text before you can even leave your chair. He will walk into the medical wing, and he will pull the plug on your mother's machines. She will suffocate in that sterile room, and her death will be entirely on your hands. Am I making myself completely clear?"
The sheer weight of the threat pressed down on my chest, making it impossible to take a full breath. He wasn't just holding her hostage; he was making me the executioner if I failed to play my part in his twisted game.
"Yes," I choked out, staring at the dark leather of his gloves. "I understand."
"Good," Mingyu said, straightening up to his full, imposing height. He turned his back on me, smoothing down the front of his charcoal dress shirt with a terrifying casualness, completely unbothered by the psychological destruction he had just detailed.
He walked toward the heavy oak door, his long legs moving with a slow, predatory grace. S.Coups moved aside in the hallway, his face an unreadable mask as he waited for his boss.
"A styling team will be at your door at exactly five o'clock in the morning," Mingyu muttered, his hand resting on the brass doorknob. He didn't look back at me as he delivered his parting words. "They will transform you into a queen for the morning, YN. Just make sure you remember who holds the crown. Get some sleep, sweetheart. The shadow king doesn't like to be kept waiting."
The heavy oak door swung shut, cutting off the light from the corridor. A second later, the loud, motorized grind of the deadbolt sliding back into place echoed through the room like the turning of a key in a tomb.
I collapsed backward onto the pillows, burying my face in the expensive, crisp sheets that smelled faintly of the laundry chemicals and cold isolation. The nightmare of my father’s house had ended, but the golden cage Kim Mingyu had built for me was infinitely more terrifying. I lay there in the dark, shivering violently, listening to the distant, rhythmic hum of the facility’s ventilation, praying for a morning that I knew would bring nothing but my own beautifully orchestrated ruin.
The motorized deadbolt didn't slide back at five in the morning. It clicked with a muted, clinical snap that signaled the absolute end of whatever fragile sleep I had managed to pull over myself like a shroud.
The door swung open to reveal three people. Two women dressed in stark, severe black trousers and a quiet man holding a heavy, garment bag made of opaque plastic. They didn't speak to me. They didn't ask how my knee felt or if the bruises under my oversized shirt still burned when I breathed too deeply. They simply went to work with the cold, mechanical efficiency that seemed to run through the veins of everyone under Kim Mingyu’s command.
For two hours, I was a mannequin.
They washed the stale scent of the basement from my skin, their hands surprisingly gentle but entirely detached. Then came the makeup. Layer after layer of thick, professional-grade concealer was pressed into the deep purple crest of my jawline, smoothing over the split in my lower lip until the skin looked flawless, radiant, and entirely fake. They pulled my hair back into a sleek, low bun, pinning it so tightly it felt like a physical anchor keeping my head high.
Finally, the garment bag was unzipped.
Inside was a tailored long-sleeved dress made of heavy, midnight-blue silk. It had a high neckline that completely covered the dark welts on my collarbone, and the structure of the waist was rigid, forcing my posture into an elegant, aristocratic frame. When they slipped the matching heels onto my feet, a sharp jolt of pain shot up from my fractured kneecap, but the heavy fabric of the skirt hid the slight tremor in my left leg perfectly.
I looked into the full-length mirror they rolled into the center of the room.
The girl in the mirror didn't look like someone who had spent the last five years listening to her mother scream from the kitchen floor. She looked like a Han. She looked like a proud, untouchable mafia princess stepping out of a high-end salon. It was a beautiful lie, wrapped in silk and painted with blood.
The door opened again at precisely seven-thirty.
S.Coups stepped in, wearing a sharp grey suit that entirely hid the tactical holster beneath his arm. His eyes swept over me, a brief flash of clinical approval crossing his rugged features before his face went entirely blank.
"The car is waiting downstairs," he said, his voice flat. He didn't offer an arm. He simply turned, expecting me to follow.
I walked down the long, carpeted hallway of the residential block, focusing every ounce of my willpower on forcing my bad knee to move smoothly. If I limped, if I showed weakness, the theater would collapse before it even began. And down in the medical wing, a single text message could turn off the machines keeping my mother anchored to this earth.
We descended via a private elevator straight into the underground garage. A different car was waiting today a massive, heavily armored black limousine with tinted windows that swallowed the bright fluorescent lights of the facility.
The rear door was held open by Vernon. I stepped inside, the plush leather interior wrapping around me like a velvet coffin.
Sitting in the far corner of the wide seat was Mingyu.
He looked like the god of this underworld. He wore a flawless three-piece black suit, a silver silk tie pinned with a dark sapphire that matched the color of my dress perfectly a sickening little detail that made my stomach turn. He was reading a physical folder, a gold fountain pen resting between his long, elegant fingers.
The door slammed shut behind me, and the limousine pulled out of the garage, ascending into the gray, rain-slicked morning of the upper city.
Mingyu didn't look up from his papers for the first ten minutes of the ride. The only sound inside the cabin was the low, muffled hum of the tires against the wet asphalt and the occasional rustle of the documents he was turning over.
"You look like your brother," he said suddenly. His voice was a deep, gravelly baritone that seemed to vibrate through the leather seat.
I kept my eyes fixed on the rain tracking down the tinted glass window. "Don't talk about him."
"Minjun was a fool, but he had a presence," Mingyu continued, entirely unbothered by my response. He finally closed the folder, setting it on the leather seat between us, and turned his dark, impenetrable eyes toward me. He scanned my face, tracing the perfect camouflage the makeup team had done over my bruises. "The northern bosses are old men. They are traditionalists. They believe in bloodlines because it gives them an illusion of continuity. When you walk into that room, you will give them that illusion."
He reached out, his hand bare this time. The warmth of his skin was an unexpected, terrifying shock against my freezing jawline as his fingers hooked under my chin, forcing me to turn my head to face him. He tilted my face toward the gray morning light filtering through the glass.
"Your name is the only thing your father left behind that has any value," Mingyu murmured, his eyes dropping to my painted lips, searching for even a microscopic tremor of fear. "Today, you give it to me. Every single acre of the northern docks, every offshore warehouse, every corrupt precinct captain your father paid off you sign it over to Seventeen."
"I told you I would do it," I whispered, my jaw rigid against the pressure of his fingers. "Just leave my mother out of it."
"She’s already out of it, as long as you don't ruin my theater," Mingyu said, his thumb brushing lightly against my cheekbone with a cold, terrifying gentleness that felt worse than a slap. He let go of my chin, leaning back into his seat, his broad shoulders throwing a long shadow across my lap. "The meeting is at the Grand Plaza Hotel. We enter through the back elevators. S.Coups and Hoshi will be behind us. If anyone speaks to you, you look at them, you nod, and you let me do the talking. You are the silent partner. The grieving heir."
The limousine slowed down, turning into a private, underground tunnel beneath the luxury hotel. Armed guards wearing the standard security uniforms of the hotel but carrying the distinct, lethal posture of Seventeen’s enforcers stood at every pillar.
The car stopped. Vernon opened the door, the cool, subterranean air rushing into the warm cabin.
Mingyu stepped out first. He smoothed down the front of his vest, then turned around, extending his large, manicured hand toward me.
I looked at his open palm. It was the hand that had pinned my father to the wall. It was the hand that held the keys to my mother's hospital room. I swallowed the bitter, suffocating lump of pride in my throat, placed my small, trembling hand into his iron grip, and stepped out into the lions' den.
Eight months can fundamentally alter the landscape of a cage.
For the first four months, the theater had continued with brutal efficiency. I sat beside Mingyu in leather-bound boardrooms across the city, a beautifully dressed ghost signing away the remnants of my father's empire piece by piece until the Han name was nothing but a footnote in Seventeen’s financial ledgers. I did exactly what I was told because the digital monitor on my vanity still showed the steady, rhythmic heartbeat of my mother down in the medical wing.
Then, four months ago, a blood clot in her brain tore the tether away.
It hadn't been an execution. It hadn't been a text message from Mingyu to S.Coups. It was just a quiet, sudden stroke in the middle of a Tuesday night. The doctor said her frail body, broken by decades of systematic abuse, simply lacked the resilience to keep fighting.
I remembered that night with an agonizing, sharp clarity. I had screamed. I had shattered every porcelain vase in my residential suite, tearing at the sheets until my hands bled, demanding that they let me go down to her body. The guards had pinned me down, but they hadn't been rough not like before. Because when the heavy oak door had opened, Mingyu hadn't stepped in with a leather folder or a threat. He had walked in silently, signaled the guards to release me, and sat on the edge of the bed while I completely unraveled.
He hadn't hugged me. He hadn't offered empty, hollow condolences. But he had let me scream until my throat was raw, his massive frame standing between me and the cold, watching eyes of the facility. And the next day, he had quietly arranged a private burial in a quiet cemetery on the outskirts of the city, far away from the Han family plot.
Since then, the gravity in the room had shifted. Just a tiny bit.
"You're staring at the glass again," a deep, smooth baritone cut through the quiet of the office.
I blinked, pulling my gaze away from the floor-to-ceiling window of Mingyu's private suite. The July rain was smearing the city lights below into long, bleeding streaks. I turned around slowly. I was no longer wearing the rigid, suffocating silk dresses of the Han empire. Tonight, I wore a simple, tailored black sweater and trousers clothes that actually let me breathe.
Mingyu was sitting behind his massive mahogany desk, but he wasn't looking at a tablet or a ledger. His dark eyes were fixed entirely on me. The unyielding, lethal frost that usually defined his expression wasn't completely gone, but the sharp edges had blunted.
"I was just thinking it's quiet tonight," I murmured, my voice steady. Eight months under his roof had taught me how to speak to the devil without my voice shaking.
"The northern territories are officially integrated," Mingyu said, leaning back in his leather chair, swirling a glass of dark amber whiskey. He didn't sound triumphant; he just sounded finished. "The debt your father owed is technically cleared as of this afternoon's audit."
I froze, my fingers tightening against the fabric of my trousers. "So... what happens to me now?"
The silence that stretched between us was different from the suffocating quiet of the interrogation room. It was heavy, but it lacked the threat of a guillotine.
Mingyu set his glass down with a soft, deliberate clink. He rose from his desk, his towering frame casting a long shadow across the plush carpet as he walked over to where I stood by the window. He stopped just a foot away. He didn't reach out to grab my chin; he didn't force my posture. He just looked down at me, his sharp features softened by the dim, warm amber lighting of the office.
"You're free to leave, YN," he said quietly. The words felt foreign coming from his mouth, entirely devoid of the calculating malice I had grown accustomed to. "I'll have Wonwoo set up an account with enough capital to ensure you never have to look back at this city again."
I stared at his chest, watching the steady rise and fall of his breathing. For eight months, escaping this fortress had been the only thought keeping me alive. But now, with the iron gates metaphorically thrown wide open, a strange, chaotic hollow opened up in my chest. My mother was gone. My brother was a ghost. The only person left in the world who truly knew the depth of the hell I had survived... was the man standing directly in front of me.
"And if I don't want to leave?" I whispered, looking up to meet his impenetrable dark gaze.
Mingyu tilted his head, a microscopic, almost imperceptible shadow of a smile touching the corner of his lips. It wasn't the cold, arrogant smirk of the shadow king; it was something quieter, grounded, and human.
"Then you stay," Mingyu murmured, his voice dropping into a low, resonant register that seemed to close the distance between us without him moving an inch. "But if you stay, you aren't an asset anymore, YN. And you definitely aren't a prisoner."
I kept my eyes locked on his. The silence in the room stretched out, no longer a suffocating prison but an open expanse, waiting for a decision. My mind raced through the ghosts of my life Minjun’s broken promise to protect me, my mother’s silent endurance, and my father’s heavy, merciless hands. For twenty-three years, I had been an object. A variable. A victim.
"Teach me how to fight," I said.
The words didn't tremble. They cut through the quiet air of the office with a sharp, desperate clarity that surprised even me.
Mingyu didn't answer immediately. He slowly leaned his shoulder against the heavy glass windowpane, his dark eyes narrowing as he studied my face. He looked for a trace of a bluff, a flicker of temporary madness, or a childish desire for revenge. But he found nothing but the cold, hardened sediment of survival.
"Fighting in my world isn't about throwing a tantrum in a ring, YN," he said, his deep baritone dropping into a quiet, gravelly register. "It’s about endurance. It’s about being willing to break a bone to tear out a throat. You’ve spent your whole life being hurt. Are you ready to be the one who inflicts it?"
"I’ve spent my whole life watching the people I love get destroyed because they couldn't fight back," I countered, stepping closer into his space, my voice rising with a raw, chaotic intensity. "My brother died in the mud. My mother died piece by piece in a house she couldn't escape. I want to know that if someone reaches for me again, I can take their hand off. Teach me."
Mingyu stared at me for three long heartbeats, the amber light of the desk lamp catching the sharp, dangerous angles of his jawline. Then, he set his whiskey glass down on the table with a firm, definitive thud.
"Tomorrow morning. Six o'clock. The lower sub-basement gym," he muttered, turning his back to me as he walked back to his desk. "Wear something you don't mind ruining. And don't eat breakfast. You'll just see it again."
The sub-basement gym smelled of industrial rubber, sweat, and cold iron. Unlike the polished, carpeted upper levels of Seventeen’s headquarters, this space was raw concrete, illuminated by harsh fluorescent tubes caged in wire.
When I arrived at exactly five-fifty-five, wearing a gray tank top and black sweatpants, Mingyu was already there. He had wrapped his hands in thick black cotton tape, stripped down to a dark compression shirt that showed the massive, powerful lines of his shoulders and back.
He didn't greet me. He tossed a roll of black handwraps at my chest.
"Wrap your wrists. Tight enough to keep the bones from shifting, loose enough to keep your fingers from turning blue," he commanded, gesturing to a heavy leather punching bag hanging from a thick steel chain in the center of the ring.
My hands shook slightly as I tried to mimic the pattern I had seen my brother use years ago, winding the thick cloth around my knuckles and wrists. Mingyu watched me for a moment before letting out a low, impatient huff. He stepped into my space, his large, warm hands taking mine without a word. He unraveled my sloppy work and rewrapped it himself, his touch firm, methodical, and entirely clinical.
"If you punch with a loose wrist, the force travels backward and shatters your own radius," he murmured, his face close enough that I could smell the faint scent of mint and the cedarwood soap he used. He pulled the velcro tight with a sharp rip. "Done. Get in the ring."
I climbed through the ropes onto the canvas. The space felt incredibly small with him inside it. He stood opposite me, his posture relaxed but predatory.
"Hit me," he said simply.
I blinked. "What?"
"Hit me. Anywhere you want. Show me what you do when you're angry," he countered, crossing his arms over his chest. He looked completely exposed, but his eyes were mocking me testing the boundaries of my fear.
I swallowed hard, stepping forward, and swung my right fist toward his jaw with all the pent-up rage of the last eight months.
Before my knuckles could even graze the stubble on his cheek, his left hand shot out like a striking viper. He caught my wrist in an iron grip, twisted his hips, and used my own momentum to hurl me sideways. My feet lost their grip on the canvas, and I hit the floor hard, my bad knee barking in agony as the breath was violently knocked out of my lungs.
I lay there for a second, gasping, staring up at the caked fluorescent lights.
"Too slow," Mingyu's voice drifted down, cold and entirely unbothered by the heavy thud of my body. He stood over me, his hands back on his hips. "You telegraphed that punch from three miles away. Your shoulder dropped, your chin came up, and you left your ribs completely open. Get up."
I bit my lip, tasting the familiar metallic tang of copper as I forced my shaking limbs to push me off the canvas. I stood up, my breath ragged, my vision blurring slightly with frustration.
"Again," he commanded.
This time, I tried to stay low, lunging for his midsection. Mingyu didn't even move his hands. He simply pivoted on his heel, letting my swing hit empty air, and planted his forearm against the back of my neck, driving me headfirst into the padded turnbuckle. Plaster dust rattled off the ceiling.
"Your balance is garbage," he growled, his voice right next to my ear as he held me pinned against the ropes for a brief, suffocating second. "You're throwing your weight forward because you think rage makes you heavy. It doesn't. It makes you clumsy. In a real fight, a man with half my size would have put a knife in your kidney by now."
He let go, stepping back into the center of the ring. I leaned against the ropes, panting, sweat dripping down my forehead, mixing with the grime of the canvas. Every muscle in my body throbbed, and my bad knee felt like it was on fire.
"Are we done?" Mingyu asked, his eyes dropping to my trembling legs. The tiny hint of softness from the night before was completely gone, replaced by the ruthless instructor who ran a criminal syndicate. "If you're going to cry, go back to your room. I don't have time to train a corpse."
I looked up at him through the tangled strands of my hair. The image of my father towering over my mother in the morning room flashed behind my eyes. The sound of the basement door locking. The absolute powerlessness that had defined my entire existence.
"No," I hissed, wiping the sweat from my eyes with the back of my wrapped hand. I stepped away from the safety of the ropes, squaring my shoulders, forcing my center of gravity down just like he had murmured during my first fall. "We aren't done. Do it again."
A dark, genuine spark of satisfaction finally flickered deep within Mingyu’s black eyes. It wasn't pity. It was respect.
"Good," he said, his voice dropping into a low, menacing purr as he raised his hands into a defensive guard for the first time. "Keep your chin down, YN. Protect your throat. Because this time, I'm hitting back."
Four more months passed, the brutal chill of the training ring slowly bleeding into the crisp, golden arrival of autumn.
The sub-basement gym remained a fixture of our routine, but the nature of our mornings had changed. I no longer hit the canvas with a breathless thud every three seconds; my movements had become leaner, sharper, grounded by a quiet gravity Mingyu had systematically built into my bones. He had taught me how to shift my weight to protect my vulnerable knee, how to throw a punch that carried the force of my entire torso, and how to read the slight, telling twitch of an opponent’s shoulder before they even struck.
But the biggest shift wasn't in my technique. It was in him.
The unyielding, clinical frost that had defined Kim Mingyu for the first eight months of my captivity had begun to melt at the edges. It happened in microscopic increments the way his hand would linger on my wrist for a second too long after correcting my stance, or the way he would personally slide a glass of ice water onto the ring apron without a word. He no longer kept me confined to the residential block. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, my presence had expanded into his daily life.
During the chaotic daytime hours, I was almost always next to him sitting quietly in the corner of his private office while he tore through logistics with Wonwoo, or riding in the back of his armored limousine as a silent, comforting shadow. And during the quiet evenings, when the weight of running an empire grew too heavy, he would always find me in the estate's glass-enclosed conservatory. It was a massive, humid sanctuary filled with dark green ferns, white orchids, and the earthy, grounding scent of rich soil.
Today was one of those quiet evenings. A soft autumn rain was tapping against the glass panels overhead, casting long, fractured shadows across the stone path. I was sitting on a low iron bench, tending to a small jade plant, when the heavy glass door clicked open.
Mingyu walked in, his tailored charcoal suit jacket slung carelessly over one shoulder, his white dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar. He looked tired the deep lines between his eyebrows telling a story of a long, frustrating negotiation with the southern shipping docks. But the moment his dark eyes found me among the greenery, the tension in his shoulders visibly loosened.
He didn't say anything at first. He just walked over, his massive frame blocking out the cool draft from the glass, and sat down on the opposite end of the bench. He leaned his head back against the brick wall, closing his eyes as the humid, warm air of the garden washed over him.
I set the gardening shears down on the stone path, wiping my hands on a cloth. I looked at the sharp, aristocratic profile of his face the man who had killed my father, saved my life, and built a brand new version of me out of the ashes.
"Mingyu?" I asked softly, my voice barely louder than the patter of the rain above.
"Yeah," he murmured, not opening his eyes.
"Can I ask you something? Something about before."
He went entirely still for a beat, his jaw tightening slightly before he opened his eyes, turning his dark, penetrating gaze toward me. "Depends on the question, YN."
I swallowed the sudden lump in my throat, forcing myself to hold his stare. "What happened? Between you and my father... to make you hate each other so much. I know he stole your product at the end, but the hatred... it felt older than that. It felt personal."
The silence that settled over the conservatory was heavy, thick with the scent of damp earth and old blood. Mingyu didn't snap. He didn't tighten his jaw or tell me to go back to my room. He simply reached into his pocket, pulling out his silver cigarette case, lighting a clove cigarette with a slow, deliberate flick of his lighter. The sweet, spicy smoke drifted up into the green canopy above.
"It was personal," Mingyu said, his deep baritone dropping into a quiet, gravelly register that seemed to match the rhythm of the rain. He took a slow drag, staring out at the dark glass. "Before I took over Seventeen, when I was still learning the ropes under S.Coups' father, the Han syndicate ruled the northern borders. Your father wasn't just a businessman, YN. He was a butcher. He thought the only way to maintain control was through absolute, public degradation of anyone who crossed him."
He paused, a dark, dangerous shadow crossing his features as the memory took hold.
"Ten years ago, my younger cousin a kid who had nothing to do with the syndicate, who was just working a summer job at one of the northern shipping docks witnessed one of your father’s enforcers executing a courier," Mingyu whispered, his voice turning into a lethal, quiet thread. "The kid panicked. He went to the police. But your father owned the precinct captain."
I felt the blood in my veins turn to ice. I knew exactly what my father did to people who went to the police.
"Your father didn't just kill him," Mingyu continued, his dark eyes snapping back to mine, burning with an old, unquenched rage. "He had him beaten, starved for three weeks in a basement not unlike the one I found you in, and then dumped his body on the steps of Seventeen's central hub as a message to S.Coups’ father. A message that said the northern docks belonged to the Han family, and anyone who looked too closely would be erased."
Mingyu took another drag of his cigarette, his knuckles turning white as he clenched his fist against his knee.
"I was twenty years old when I carried my cousin's body to the morgue," he murmured. "I looked at what your father did to him, and I promised myself that I would dismantle the Han name piece by piece. I didn't care how long it took. I didn't care how much blood I had to spill. I wanted to see Chairman Han lose everything his territory, his money, his power... and his mind."
He turned his head fully toward me, his expression softening just a fraction as his eyes scanned my face, tracing the faint, fading shadows of the abuse my father had inflicted on me.
"When I raided that mansion four months ago, I thought I was just clearing out the last of the infection," Mingyu said, his voice dropping into a low, resonant whisper that vibrated through the small space between us. "I expected to find a fortress of loyal soldiers. I didn't expect to find... you. I didn't expect to find that the monster had been butchering his own bloodline inside the walls."
I looked down at my lap, my throat tight with a sudden surge of emotion. The puzzle pieces had finally fallen into place. The decades of violence, the horrific war between our families it hadn't just been about drugs or territory. It had been a cycle of vengeance, and my mother and I had been trapped in the middle of it, paying for a man's sins we had never asked to share.
"I'm sorry," I whispered, the words slipping out before I could stop them. "For what he did to your cousin."
Mingyu didn't answer immediately. He reached out, his large, warm hand moving slowly across the iron bench until his fingers gently covered mine. He didn't grip my hand tightly like a captor; he just held it, his thumb brushing against my knuckles with a quiet, grounded warmth that sent a shiver straight down my spine.
"You don't owe me an apology for his ghost, YN," Mingyu said softly, his dark eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made the rest of the world fade away. "He's dead. The debt is paid. And you are the only good thing that ever came out of that house."
The weight of his words hung in the warm, humid air of the conservatory, blending with the scent of damp earth and the sweet, spicy smoke of his cigarette. His large thumb continued its slow, deliberate sweep over my knuckles. It was a rhythm I had come to rely on over the past few months a steady anchor in a life that had otherwise been entirely uprooted.
"A good thing," I echoed, my voice barely a breath. I looked down at our joined hands. His skin was warm, crisscrossed with faint scars from a decade of violence, entirely contrasting my smaller, smoother hand. "I don't think anyone has ever used that word to describe me. To my father, I was just a waste of space after Minjun died."
Mingyu’s grip tightened just a fraction, pulling my attention back up to his face. "Your father was a blind fool who didn't know the value of what he had," he said, his deep baritone carrying a fierce, absolute conviction. "He thought strength was about how many people you could terrify. He didn't understand that true survival is holding onto a shred of your humanity when you're buried in the dark. You did that. Your mother did that."
At the mention of my mother, a familiar, quiet ache bloomed in my chest, but it no longer carried the sharp, suffocating panic it used to. It had settled into a dull, manageable sorrow, smoothed over by the fact that she had died in a clean bed, free from the chains of the Han estate.
"I used to hate you," I admitted softly, looking directly into his dark, bottomless eyes. "The night you brought us here, when you told me that useless things get thrown away... I wanted to kill you myself."
A genuine, low chuckle vibrated through Mingyu’s chest. He didn't look offended; if anything, the ghost of an amused smile touched his lips as he flicked the ash from his cigarette onto the stone path. "I know. I saw it in your eyes in the interrogation room. You looked like a feral cat ready to tear my throat out despite the cuff on your wrist."
"You weren't exactly making it easy to think otherwise," I countered, a small, tentative smile tugging at the corner of my own lips a rare, fragile expression that felt entirely new on my face.
"I couldn't," Mingyu said, his expression sobering as he leaned in slightly closer, his shadow enveloping me. The amusement faded from his eyes, replaced by a raw, unshielded gravity. "In my world, softness is a death sentence. S.Coups, Wonwoo, Hoshi... they watch every move I make. If I had shown a single ounce of hesitation or pity toward Han’s daughter on night one, the syndicates would have smelled weakness. I had to make you an asset to keep you safe from the clean-up crews. I had to make you look like a weapon so they wouldn't try to discard you."
The realization hit me like a physical blow, sending a sudden rush of warmth through my veins. He hadn't just been exploiting my name; he had been building a perimeter around me using the only language his world understood leverage.
"So the training... the boardrooms..." I trailed off.
"All of it," Mingyu murmured, his voice dropping into a low, intimate register that seemed to narrow the universe down to just the two of us on this iron bench. "I needed you to be untouchable, YN. Not just from them, but from the memory of what happened to you. I wanted to give you the tools to ensure no one could ever put you in a basement again."
He dropped the remains of his cigarette, crushing it beneath the heel of his polished leather boot, and reached up with his free hand. His long, elegant fingers gently traced the line of my jaw, his touch entirely devoid of the clinical detachment from our early days in the gym. It was tender, lingering over the spot where my father's ring had once left a jagged scar.
"But the debt is cleared now," he whispered, his eyes scanning my face with a quiet intensity that made my breath hitch in my throat. "The theater is over. You don't have to be a Han princess anymore, and you don't have to be my asset. So I'll ask you again, without the walls, without the guards... why are you still here?"
I looked at his hand on my jaw, then back up into the eyes of the man who had torn my old world down and meticulously helped me construct a new one. The city outside was still bleeding under the autumn rain, but inside the glass walls of the conservatory, the air was warm, safe, and entirely ours.
"Because the girl who walked out of that basement died months ago," I said, my voice steady, my heart pounding a fierce, unbroken rhythm against my ribs. I reached up, placing my hand over his where it rested against my cheek. "And the one standing here doesn't want to be anywhere else."
Two weeks later, the peaceful isolation of the conservatory was completely shattered. A rogue cartel faction operating out of an opulent, fortified estate in the hills had intercepted a vital shipment of Seventeen's heavy weaponry. It wasn't just a financial hit; it was a direct challenge to Mingyu’s authority.
When the schematics were laid out on the mahogany desk in the war room, my blood ran hot. I stood at the edge of the table, looking at the security blind spots, my fingers twitching.
"I'm coming with you," I said, my voice cutting through the murmurs of Wonwoo and Hoshi.
Mingyu stopped mid-sentence, his dark eyes snapping up from the digital map. The rest of the room went deathly silent. "No," he said, his voice dropping into that flat, unyielding register I hadn't heard in months. "It’s too volatile. We don't know the exact count of the security detail."
"I am strong enough, Mingyu," I stepped closer, refusing to let the coldness in his eyes back me down. "Four months in the ring with you. I’m agile, I’m fast, and I know exactly how these old cartel factions operate under pressure. I can fight alongside you."
"I said no, YN," Mingyu growled, standing up to his full height, his massive frame instantly dominating the space. "I didn't spend the last four months putting you back together just to watch you get torn apart in a crossfire. I can't risk losing you."
The raw confession hung heavily in the air, surprising even S.Coups, who shifted uncomfortably by the door. I looked at Mingyu, seeing the deep, frantic protectiveness buried beneath his hardened exterior.
"Please," I whispered, stepping into his personal space, my eyes pleading. "Just for today. Let me prove that the weapon you built works. Don't leave me behind in the dark again."
Mingyu stared down at me, his jaw clenching so tightly a muscle ticked. He looked at S.Coups, then at Wonwoo, who gave a slight, pragmatic nod. Finally, a heavy, defeated sigh left his lips. "Fine," he muttered, his voice thick with a dangerous promise. "But you follow the script to the absolute letter."
The mission was a high-stakes heist wrapped in a chaotic bloodbath. The target was a lavish, black-tie masquerade party hosted by an older, corrupt cartel boss named Victor. While the main house was a glittering sea of diamonds, silk, and expensive champagne, the sub-levels held the stolen Seventeen weapons and a vault of uncut diamonds.
My role was the bait.
I was disguised as an elite foreign buyer, wearing a backless black silk gown with a high slit that concealed a tactical dagger strapped to my inner thigh. My hair was swept up, and a silver filigree mask covered the upper half of my face.
The moment I stepped onto the ballroom floor, I spotted Victor across the crowded room. He was a bloated older man, precise in his arrogance the exact kind of monster my father used to entertain. I caught his eye, offering a slow, calculated smile, and tilted my glass toward him before walking purposefully toward the private upper corridors.
It worked instantly. He followed me like a dog on a leash, away from the noise of the party and into a dimly lit, velvet-lined private lounge.
Through the hidden earpiece pressed deep into my ear canal, I could hear the faint, erratic rhythm of Mingyu's breathing. He was stationed in the rafters of the main ballroom, his sniper rifle trained on the courtyard, but his attention was entirely fixed on my audio feed.
"He's in the room," I murmured quietly, pretending to adjust my earring as I turned to face Victor.
"I don't like this," Mingyu’s deep baritone crackled through the static, rough and laced with a terrifying undercurrent of jealousy. "Keep your distance from him, YN. I mean it."
I didn't answer. I had a job to do.
Victor closed the heavy mahogany door behind him, a greasy smile spreading across his face as he took off his mask. "An exquisite creature like you shouldn't be wandering the halls alone," he purred, stepping into my space, his hands reaching for my waist.
I leaned into him, letting my touch trace the lapel of his suit jacket, my eyes wide and heavy with a false, seductive warmth. I laughed softly, a low, melodic sound that made his pupils dilate with greed. It was remarkably easy to manipulate an old man who thought his wealth made him invincible.
Down in the comms, I heard a sharp, heavy thud the sound of Mingyu slamming his fist against a concrete beam. He hated every second of it, but he forced himself to stay silent as the plan moved forward.
Simultaneously, deep in the lower vaults, Jeonghan, Dino, and Woozi were moving through the shadows, bypassing the laser grids to secure the crates of firearms and sacks of uncut diamonds. Jeonghan’s gloved hands were lightning-fast, bypassing the security terminal while Dino kept watch.
But Victor’s security wasn't entirely incompetent. A secondary, analog pressure sensor under the main diamond case tripped.
ALARM SIRENS WAIL
A loud, screeching red light began to pulse through the entire mansion, fracturing the luxury into instant chaos.
In the private lounge, Victor froze, his greasy smile evaporating. "What the hell is that?" he muttered. He looked at me, suspicion suddenly darkening his eyes. He tried to politely but firmly push me toward the door, his grip turning rough. "The party is over, sweetheart. Get back to the ballroom. I have business to attend to."
"We aren't finished," I said, the seductive warmth completely vanishing from my voice.
Before he could even register the shift, I drove the palm of my hand directly upward into his nose. A loud, satisfying crack echoed through the room as blood spurted across his white shirt. He stumbled back, howling in pain, but he was a cartel boss for a reason he swung a heavy, panicked fist at my head.
The blow caught me squarely on the cheek. The sheer force of it sent me spinning into a glass cabinet, expensive crystal shattering around me like ice. Pain exploded across my face, and the earpiece ripped from my ear, bouncing away into the wreckage.
Victor lunged at me like a wounded animal. I scrambled up, but he was fast, his heavy boot catching my side, sending a sickening jolt of pain through my ribs. I gasped for air, tasting copper as my own blood began to smear my lipstick.
“YN! Report!” Mingyu’s voice was a distant, frantic echo from the tiny piece of plastic on the floor. “YN! Talk to me!”
I couldn't answer. I was fighting for my life.
Victor grabbed my throat, trying to pin me to the wall, his fingers digging into my skin. Through the haze of pain, my training took over. I slammed my hands between his arms to break his grip, then drove my knee sharply into his groin. As his hold loosened, I grabbed a heavy silver candlestick from the mantelpiece and brought it down with everything I had left, smashing it hard against the side of his skull.
He collapsed sideways, completely unconscious, his blood pooling into the plush velvet rug. I fell to my knees beside him, clutching my bruised ribs, my breath coming in ragged, painful gasps.
Downstairs, the mansion had devolved into an absolute, cinematic bloodbath. The moment the alarm tripped, S.Coups, Hoshi, Jun, and the rest of Seventeen blew the front doors off their hinges. Gunfire ripped through the ballroom, sending elite guests screaming into the night.
But up in the rafters, Mingyu had gone completely feral.
When the audio feed went dead after the sound of shattering glass, a cold, suffocating panic had seized him. He didn't just descend from the ceiling; he dropped like a shadow of pure vengeance.
"YN! Report! YN!" he screamed into the comms, his voice cracking with a terrifying, uncharacteristic desperation. When nothing but static answered, his heart shattered. He lost his mind.
He charged through the cartel guards with a fluid, terrifying brutality, painting the marble walls red. He didn't take cover; he didn't care about the crossfire. His only focus, his only desperate, panicked thought, was reaching that second-floor lounge. He fired until his rifle clicked empty, dropped it without breaking his stride, and pulled his sidearm, blowing through anyone who stood between him and the girl he couldn't afford to lose.
The heavy mahogany door of the lounge was kicked entirely off its frame.
Mingyu stormed in, his chest heaving violently, his face splattered with blood, his eyes wide and frantic as they scanned the room.
He froze.
The room was completely destroyed. The cartel boss was bleeding out on the floor, and there I was, leaning against the sofa. My gown was torn, a dark bruise was already rising on my cheek, and a thin trickle of blood ran down my neck but my eyes were open. I was alive.
The sheer relief that washed over his fierce features was so intense it looked like pain. The terrifying, murderous king of Seventeen vanished, replaced by a man who had just looked into the abyss and survived. A low, gravelly growl escaped his throat.
He closed the distance between us in two massive strides, his large hands grabbing my waist and pulling me flush against his chest so violently it knocked the remaining air from my bruised ribs.
"You magnificent, reckless creature," he whispered fiercely against my skin, his voice trembling with the aftershocks of his panic. "Don't you ever do that to me again."
Before I could even speak, his mouth crashed down onto mine.
The kiss was rough, chaotic, and brimming with the adrenaline of the bloodbath raging just outside the door. It was passionate, almost bruising, born from the terrifying certainty that he had almost lost me. He tasted like copper and smoke, his teeth grazing my lower lip as his fingers dug into my hair, pulling me closer and closer until there was no space left between us. It was a possessive, desperate declaration a testament to the fact that I was no longer just an asset or a survivor, but the only thing that could truly make the shadow king fall to his knees.
✦ Synopsis; seventeen runs the city through discipline, loyalty, and restraint. But power attracts attention, and silence starts to cost more than action.
✦ Ongoing | updates every Thursday
✦ 30 chapters planned
✦ Themes: Mafia AU | Found Family | Moral Ambiguity | Power Dynamics | Multiple POV
Summary: Mingyu was preparing for a divorce when he began to sense that something was wrong with his wife.
Mingyu hadn’t been home since yesterday—or maybe since the day before that. He stopped counting after the fight, the kind that didn’t end with slammed doors but with silence, thickening the wall that had been building between you for over a year. He chose to stay in his humble studio, surrounded by paintings never meant for the world—only for him to face. Each canvas stared back in accusation, as if every unfinished stroke was cursing him.
You didn’t call—you never did, and he told himself it was because you had stopped caring. You chose that, and Mingyu found it unbearably hurtful. Sometimes, when his gaze lingered on the band wrapped around his finger, he thought of you—the version of you who loved him fiercely, who would have done anything for him. And when you stopped doing that, when you stopped caring, something in him made a quiet decision: he needed to protect himself.
Kim Mingyu was an aspiring painter when he met you. You were radiant the moment you walked into the meeting room, introducing yourself as the curator of the gallery where his work would be displayed. When he heard your name, recognition struck immediately—he knew you were one of them.
And yes. You were the daughter of the former prime minister.
His career flourished with your help. He had always believed his work would reach its peak someday—and it did. His pieces became widely known, his name circulating through galleries across the world, until Kim Mingyu was no longer just an aspiring painter, but one of the most sought-after artists globally.
“This is An Angel Who Couldn’t Paint.”
He said it the way he introduced all his recent works, calm and practiced. The angel on the canvas was adored by everyone—soft wings, gentle light—yet her expression was unmistakably sad.
You stood beside him as the gallery emptied. Footsteps faded, lights dimmed, until there was no one left but the two of you, both too nervous to be the first to leave. Tomorrow was a big day.
“Why couldn’t it paint?” you asked, turning toward him.
He looked at you then, smiling softly.
“Her family didn’t let her.”
Mingyu hadn’t expected to win your heart that night. Yet when you looked at him—really looked at him—it felt like a confession made without words. Your gaze carried an offering, quiet and devastating, as if you were placing your heart in his hands along with your soul, your bones, everything that made you whole.
And yet, here he was—sitting on the couch with the curtains drawn open, staring into the night with a glass of whiskey in his hand. There was no you here, and lately, there had been no you in his life at all.
The man he was five years ago wouldn’t have believed this version of himself if someone had told him: the woman you think you love the most will change. And so will you.
On the table lay a fresh print of the divorce papers, waiting to be signed. Finally. His lawyer had notified him countless times—about the plan to divorce you, about how it had been inevitable since the first fight a year ago. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He had been too naive to understand that the two of you had lost each other long before this moment.
And there was no reason left to stay.
Even your family—your powerful, conglomerate family—couldn’t be the reason he stayed. He was adored there, praised for his easy charm, his manners. But was any of it genuine? Honestly, he no longer knew.
He had witnessed the way your brother-in-law was spoken about behind closed doors, criticized for being too absorbed in his own law firm, for refusing to fold himself into the family company. And Mingyu couldn’t forget that one night either—the way your brother’s wife had broken down during a family gathering, crying quietly because five years of marriage had passed and she still hadn’t conceived.
Three years of marriage—to an artist. No children. Would your parents still treat him the same?
*
“Is she with you? We couldn’t find her.”
It was late when Mingyu received the call from your parents. He sighed as he pulled on his shirt and coat, grabbing his keys before heading toward their house.
“We found out you two were fighting,” your mother said gently. “She came here a week ago. Was it that bad?”
Her voice was soft, but Mingyu could hear the worry beneath it.
“I’ll be there, Mother,” he replied, already driving away from his studio.
There were only a few places you might go at this hour to clear your mind. He had lived through this before. When you weren’t in bed, when the house felt too quiet, he would find you somewhere close, in the garden, or walking through the neighborhood under the dim streetlights.
“It’s dangerous,” he had told you once, rushing out of the house after realizing you were gone—only to find you returning, an ice cream melting slowly in your hand.
“I couldn’t sleep.”
Mingyu had sighed then, the tension draining from his shoulders.
“Wake me up, love,” he’d said softly. “I’ll walk with you.”
Mingyu immediately typed out the places where your parents’ people might find you. He drove carefully, his mind running through scenarios—what would happen once he found you, what he would say to your parents afterward.
He sighed again, for what felt like the hundredth time.
Your parents had spoiled you too much.
Mingyu had never been the type to celebrate every moment extravagantly—if at all. He expressed his gratitude, acknowledged the milestone, and kept moving forward.
Your family, however, lived by a different tradition: everything was celebrated, and always with excess.
Your engagement was meant to be intimate. Instead, your parents insisted on renting out a hotel ballroom, inviting nearly everyone they knew—most of whom Mingyu didn’t—and turning the day into a spectacle.
The wedding was no different. Whatever imagination he had left of a small ceremony—one with only the closest people present—disappeared the moment your parents took over the planning. A grand venue. An expensive dress. Hundreds of invitations, while his side amounted to barely ten.
They loved you. And they loved spoiling you.
He tried calling your phone as he drove toward the park near your parents’ house—the one you used to run to as a child whenever your parents fought or your siblings became too much. You didn’t answer. Not once.
Mingyu parked the car and immediately scanned the area, his steps quick and restless as he searched the park. He called your name a few times, voice cutting through the night, but there was no sign of you—only a group of teenagers smoking near the benches. When he asked if they had seen a woman walking alone, they shook their heads, irritation clear in their faces.
He called your parents’ security team next. They hadn’t found you near the lake either—the place you had mentioned before, half in passing.
“Check the gazebos too,” he told them. They moved at once.
He started running then. He wasn’t sure why—whether it was the need to find you quickly so he could take you back to your parents, or simply to end the search and the fear gnawing at his chest.
He exhaled sharply when he spotted a familiar figure walking ahead. His pace slowed without thinking, steps cautious now as he drew closer.
“Ji Y/n…”
As if summoned, you turned your head at the sound of your name.
“Kim Mingyu..”
“Why are you here at this hour?” Mingyu asked, breath still uneven from the run.
You didn’t answer right away. Your gaze drifted past him, circling the trees, the dim lamps, the path beneath your feet—until something in your expression shifted, like recognition arriving late.
“I was just out for air.”
Mingyu swallowed. “Your parents called me because they couldn’t find you. I thought we were done talking about this—”
He stopped himself too late, only then realizing the edge in his voice.
“Don’t yell at me.”
The words were quiet, but they landed heavy.
Mingyu exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his face. “I’m not,” he said, softer now. “Let’s go home.”
He reached out, fingers closing around your wrist. You looked down at his hand. Then back up at him.
“Which home?”
He froze.
For a moment, the park seemed too quiet—no wind, no footsteps, no distant traffic. Mingyu loosened his grip and turned to face you fully.
“Our home.” he said.
The two of you walked toward his car in silence. Mingyu moved a few steps ahead, hands shoved into his pockets, mind already elsewhere. It wasn’t until he reached the door and turned back that he realized—
You were wearing nothing but a thin sleeping dress and with no shoes. Bare feet touching the cold pavement.
He cursed under his breath.
Mingyu shrugged off his jacket and draped it around your shoulders, movements careful now, almost hesitant. “Where are your shoes?” he asked, already sighing as he opened the passenger door for you.
You stared at the ground, brows knitting together as if the answer were buried somewhere just out of reach.
“I don’t know,” you said quietly.
As Mingyu got into the driver’s seat, his eyes drifted back to you. Only then did he notice the bruises and dirt smudged along your feet, as if you had been running barefoot long before he found you. His jaw tightened.
He called your mother and spoke quietly.
“She’s with me now. She’s safe.”
A pause.
“I’m taking her home.”
Another pause, heavier this time.
“I’m sorry for the inconvenience.”
You leaned back against the seat, exhaustion overtaking you as your eyelids fluttered shut. Sleep claimed you quickly, as if your body had been waiting for permission to rest.
Mingyu sighed and started the engine, guiding the car back toward the house. A place the two of you used to call home.
*
Mingyu entered your home office after months of doing nothing more than walking past it. It was one of the rooms you treasured most—a space you had insisted on keeping for yourself when your father was choosing the house you would live in after the wedding.
You were already asleep in the bedroom after tonight’s walk. He had carried you in from the car, careful and slow, yet you hadn’t stirred at all. It surprised him. You had always been a light sleeper.
He stood by the bed for a moment before leaving, watching you breathe, watching the familiar rise and fall of your chest. You were still you when you slept—soft, unchanged, untouched by the distance that had grown between you.
But when you were awake? He realized with a quiet ache, he had started to hate that version of you.
He closed the door of your office and stepped inside with a carefulness only a cautious husband could muster. Once, he had never knocked. He would barge in without warning, a photograph of a new painting already in his hand, words tumbling over one another as he spilled every concept crowding his mind.
“It must be nice to be a genius,” you would say, leaning back in your chair, eyes warm as you smiled at him.
“I’m far from a genius, love,” Mingyu would reply shyly, brushing off the compliment even though you both knew he enjoyed it.
“I’m just good.”
You would laugh then—soft and unguarded. It had been a beautiful, gentle love. One he realized how much he missed.
He sat in your chair, its familiarity unsettling, and wondered how busy you had been lately. You barely stayed in the house anymore, choosing instead to live with your parents. He told himself it was practical—the gallery was closer to their place. A project, maybe. An exhibition.
He used to witness the way your eyes lit up when you worked, the passion that consumed you so completely.
Since when had he started to hate your work?
It was your work that had once lifted his name, carried him into rooms he never imagined entering. But now—now it felt like nothing more than the current pulling the two of you farther apart.
The next morning, Mingyu sat by the counter after a night without a wink of sleep. He had meant to rest on the couch, but his body never followed his intentions. His thoughts wandered everywhere except toward rest.
A cup of coffee sat untouched beside him. Freshly brewed. Something he used to miss every time he stayed away. Coffee in his own house used to feel grounding. Familiar. Safe.
He heard the bedroom door open. He didn’t turn. He already knew the questions that would usually follow—why he drove you home, why he was here, why he crossed a boundary you both had drawn after the last fight. He knew you hated this house now. Hated the two of you existing in the same space.
However, none of that came.
Instead, you stepped into the kitchen in the same thin sleeping dress from the night before. Bare feet against the floor. Your voice came soft, almost fragile.
“Morning.”
Before he could react, your hand rested briefly on his shoulder. Your lips brushed his—light, absent, almost instinctive. A peck that lasted less than a second. Months.
That was all it took to freeze him in place.
You moved away as if nothing had happened, opening the fridge, taking out fruits, eggs. Normal. Too normal. As if this was still your routine. As if you hadn’t shattered him just now.
“You want some?” you asked, casual. “I can make you a sandwich too.”
You went on tiptoe to reach a cup.
The sound of a sharp wince—and glass crashing to the floor—snapped Mingyu back into motion.
“What’s wrong?” He was already beside you, hands hovering, instinct kicking in. “Careful. Don’t move—there’s glass.”
You looked at him for a moment, then down.
Your feet.
Bruised. Scraped. Dirt still clinging faintly to your skin—marks he had cleaned in silence while you slept.
“I didn’t realize it,” you murmured. “What happened?”
He didn’t answer.
“Sit down,” Mingyu said instead, steady but firm. “I’ll make your breakfast.”
You didn’t argue. You walked away while he cleaned the broken glass, movements practiced, controlled—like he hadn’t spent the entire night watching you breathe, wondering when everything had gone so wrong.
He placed the plate in front of you not long after. Boiled eggs. Fruits. Toast.
Your favorite.
He watched you quietly, already planning to knock some sense into you later—once you’d eaten, once the color returned to your face, once he was sure you were really here.
Mingyu waited. Not because he needed time, but because he was afraid that if he spoke too soon, the morning would crack completely. The kettle clicked softly on the counter. Outside, the day went on like nothing inside this house had shifted its axis.
“You were out last night,” he said slowly, as if pacing the truth would make it easier to swallow. “Where were you?”
You sat across from him, legs tucked under the chair, toast held loosely between your fingers. You took another bite, chewing carefully, eyes unfocused—not avoiding him, but not looking either.
“I was home,” you said. “Waiting for you.”
The words landed wrong. Too neat. Too certain.
Mingyu felt his chest tighten. “You weren’t.”
You paused. Just for a second. Then you tilted your head, confused, almost amused by his contradiction. “I fell asleep,” you replied. “I remember sitting there. I must’ve dozed off.”
He searched your face for cracks. For hesitation. For guilt. There was none.
That was when he noticed it—the darkness beneath your eyes, heavier than fatigue alone. Your skin looked different too. Not sick, not pale. Just… muted. Like someone had turned the saturation down little by little and no one had noticed until now.
“Were you high last night?” he asked quietly, the question tasting wrong in his mouth.
Your brows pulled together immediately. “What?”
He didn’t explain. His mind had already run ahead of him, replaying the night before—your office, untouched. The drawers he opened slowly, the shelves he scanned twice. No medication. No substances. No signs of panic or recklessness. If you had taken something, you had hidden it well. Or it wasn’t there at all.
“You were at your parents’ house,” he said instead, voice firmer now. “For a week. They called me. They couldn’t find you.”
You blinked.
Once.
Then again.
“Really?” you said, a small laugh slipping out. “I was in my office. I’ve been finishing my work.”
There it was again. That certainty. That calm insistence.
Mingyu stared at you like he was looking at a stranger wearing your face. The way you spoke wasn’t defensive. You weren’t lying the way people usually lied—not rushed, not evasive. You believed in yourself.
That frightened him more than any argument you’d ever had.
His eyes drifted down unconsciously. To your hands. To the faint tremor you didn’t seem to notice. To your bare feet resting against the cold floor, still marked faintly with bruises that hadn’t been there before last night.
He followed his own gaze down the hallway, back to your office. On your desk—exactly where he had found it last night—lay the resignation letter.
Your resignation.
You were going to leave the job you loved most. The one that kept you alive when everything else felt heavy. And he didn’t know why.
The question had been drilling into his head since last night, since he folded that paper with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking. Why? It followed him to the couch, to the kitchen, to the sound of you saying morning like nothing was wrong.
Why would you give this up?
Was it for him?
For us?
The kitchen suddenly felt too familiar this morning—like a version of home Mingyu hadn’t visited in a long time.
You said it casually. Too casually during breakfast. “Maybe…” you started, as if you were commenting on the weather. “Maybe raising a kid would help us. Change how we see things.”
The words caught him off guard. Mingyu looked up slowly, as if he hadn’t heard you right. For a moment, he just stared.
Surprise came first—sharp and unguarded. His mind scrambled, trying to match this calm version of you with the memory of how firmly you had once said no. How your voice shook, not with anger, but fear. Fear he hadn’t understood then and hadn’t bothered to ask about since.
Why now?
You weren’t looking at him the way you used to when you tried to compromise. There was no hesitation in your posture, no defensive edge. Just a stillness that unsettled him more than anger ever did.
Then came the nervousness.
His fingers curled slightly against the counter, grounding himself. He wondered if this was something you had been thinking about for a while, or if it was something you decided this morning—born out of exhaustion, out of guilt, out of wanting peace at any cost.
Was this your way of reaching out?
“Maybe raising a kid would help us.”
As if that conversation hadn’t torn something apart last year. As if it hadn’t ended with silence stretching for months, with him leaving more often, with you learning how to sleep alone in a marriage.
The words hung in the air. You didn’t mention the fear. Didn’t mention hospitals, or test results, or how your hands had shaken when the doctor spoke too gently. You just stood there, calm on the surface, offering the idea like it hadn’t once broken you.
He searched your face for signs—hope, reluctance, sincerity—but all he found was calm. A calm that scared him more than resistance ever had.
*
Mingyu had once thought it was a coping mechanism. You had this way of waving away guilt—of smoothing things over without ever touching them. Every time a fight stretched too far, too heavy, you would return the next day as if nothing had happened. As if the night before hadn’t existed at all.
He first noticed it during your first anniversary. Mingyu had prepared everything himself that night. A quiet dinner, nothing extravagant—just the two of you, the way he preferred it. The table was set long before the food began to lose its warmth, candles burning lower with every passing minute as he waited.
You were working late at the gallery. At first, he told himself it was fine. You had always been passionate about your work—he loved that about you. But as the hours passed, as his messages remained unread and your calls went unanswered, something inside him began to tighten.
You had forgotten. Not just the dinner. Not just the time. Him. When you finally came home, the apology came easily from you—too easily. Soft, quick, almost practiced. Mingyu had been upset then. Not loudly, not enough to start a war, but enough. He told you to be more mindful. To keep track of time. To think about the person waiting for you. To think about him.
You listened. Nodded. Stayed quiet. He thought it had meant something. But the next morning, you kissed him like you always did. Sat beside him at the breakfast table, close enough for your shoulder to brush against his, asking him something trivial—what he wanted to do that day, maybe, or whether he would be at the studio. Your voice was light, untouched, as if the night before had slipped cleanly out of your memory.
Mingyu stared at you, something sharp and burning settling behind his eyes. There was no trace of it. No hesitation. No guilt. No attempt to fix what had been said. Just you. Normal. Warm. Unchanged.
And that was the first time it unsettled him, how easily you could wake up the next day and act as if there had never been anything to fix at all.
The last real fight you had—before everything turned into silence—was about a child. It wasn’t even supposed to be a fight. Mingyu had brought it up casually that night, almost carefully, like testing the temperature of something fragile. The house had been quiet, the kind of quiet that didn’t feel heavy yet. You were sitting across from him, absentmindedly scrolling through something on your phone, half-listening.
“Have you ever thought about it?” he asked.
You looked up. “About what?”
“A kid.”
The reaction was immediate. Not loud. Not explosive. But immediate. Your expression changed in a way he couldn’t quite name back then—something closing off behind your eyes, something pulling away from him before he could even reach it.
“No,” you said. Too quick.
Mingyu frowned slightly, leaning back in his chair. “No?” he repeated, softer this time, like maybe you hadn’t understood the question.
“I don’t want one.”
There was no hesitation in your voice. No room left for discussion. And that—more than the answer itself—irritated him.
“Why not?” Mingyu asked, the edge slipping in despite himself. “We’ve been married for three years.”
You let out a small breath, setting your phone down slowly. “Because I don’t want to.”
“That’s not a reason.”
Your eyes flickered then, something sharper surfacing. “It is.”
Mingyu exhaled, running a hand through his hair. He wasn’t trying to start anything. He just—didn’t understand. “People don’t just decide they don’t want kids for no reason,” he said, voice tightening. “You’re not even willing to think about it?”
“I have thought about it.”
“Then explain it to me.”
Silence stretched between you for a second too long. When you spoke again, your voice was quieter—but not softer. “You wouldn’t understand.”
Something in him bristled at that. “Try me.”
You hesitated. And for a moment—just a moment—he thought you wouldn’t say anything at all. That you would brush it off the way you always did, walk away, let it dissolve into nothing.
But you didn’t.
“I don’t want my body to change like that,” you said finally.
Mingyu blinked. “What?”
“Pregnancy,” you continued, more steadily now, even if your fingers had begun to curl slightly against the table. “The weight gain. The way your body stops feeling like yours. I’ve seen it. I’ve—” You stopped yourself, jaw tightening. “I don’t want that.”
He stared at you, the explanation settling wrong in his chest.
“That’s it?” he asked, before he could stop himself.
Your head snapped up. “That’s it?” you echoed, something incredulous slipping into your voice now.
Mingyu shook his head slightly, already frustrated. “You’re saying you don’t want a child because you’re scared of gaining weight?”
“It’s not just weight.”
“Then what is it?” he pressed.
You looked at him then—really looked at him—and whatever was in your eyes made him falter for half a second.
“Exactly,” you said quietly. “You don’t get it.”
The conversation went nowhere after that. It circled. Tightened. Broke in places neither of you tried to fix. Mingyu remembered the way your voice had risen—not loud, but strained, like something was pulling at it from the inside. He remembered the way you kept repeating the same thing in different words, as if you were trying to explain something bigger but couldn’t quite bring yourself to say it.
And he remembered how, at some point, he stopped listening. It sounded trivial to him. Avoidable. Something that could be reasoned through if you just—tried. But you didn’t.
You shut down instead. And the next morning—the next morning wasn’t normal.
There was no quiet greeting, no soft kiss pressed against his lips like a habit you refused to break. No gentle presence beside him in the kitchen, no small attempt to smooth over what had been said.
Mingyu woke up to silence. The kind that felt wrong the moment he opened his eyes. He found you already dressed, standing by the door with your bag slung over your shoulder. Your shoes were on. Your hand rested on the handle, like you had been about to leave for a while now.
“You’re going already?” he asked, voice still rough with sleep.
You didn’t turn immediately.
“I have work,” you said. Simple. Flat. No mention of last night. No mention of anything.
Mingyu pushed himself up slightly, frowning. “You’re not going to eat first?”
“I’m not hungry.”
That was it. No pause. No glance back to check if he would say something else. No hesitation in the way you opened the door and stepped out.
The sound of it closing lingered longer than it should have. Mingyu sat there for a while after that, staring at nothing in particular, something unfamiliar settling deep in his chest. It wasn’t anger—not fully.
It was something quieter. Colder. And it didn’t stop there. Days turned into a pattern he didn’t remember agreeing to.
You left early. Came home late. Sometimes not at all. And when you were there, you weren’t really there.
Conversations shortened. Then it disappeared. Meals became optional. Shared space became something you both moved around carefully, like stepping through a room filled with fragile things neither of you wanted to touch.
Mingyu stopped asking after a while. Stopped waiting, too. The house—once something warm, something grounding—began to feel unfamiliar. Too quiet in the wrong ways. Too empty, even when you were inside it.
So he stayed at the studio more often. At first, it was just to work. Then to think. Then, eventually… to breathe.
The smell of paint, the unfinished canvases, the silence that didn’t expect anything from him—it all felt easier than walking into a home that no longer felt like one.
Somewhere along the way, without either of you saying it out loud, the studio became his place of rest, and the house you shared became somewhere he only returned to out of habit.
*
“What is this?”
Mingyu froze at the sound of your voice. He hadn’t expected to find you there—standing in the middle of his studio, as if you had every right to be. As if this place still belonged to both of you.
His gaze dropped to your hand. The papers. A copy of the divorce documents his lawyer had prepared, edges slightly crumpled where your fingers held them too tightly.
For a moment, neither of you moved.
It had been—what—almost a year since you last stepped into his studio?
A year since you last stood among the canvases, the smell of paint, the quiet that used to feel like a shared language between you.
Mingyu had stopped expecting you to come back. Somewhere along the way, he thought you had forgotten this part of him existed. That the version of him who painted, who stayed up all night chasing colors and light and meaning—had slowly disappeared in your eyes. All that was left was a husband. A role you had grown tired of. A man you no longer looked at the same way.
And yet, here you were. Holding the proof of everything he hadn’t said out loud.
Mingyu exhaled slowly, setting his keys down on the nearest surface, the sound sharper than intended in the stillness.
“It’s exactly what it looks like,” he said. His voice came out calmer than he felt. Controlled. Practiced.
Like this moment had been waiting for him long enough that he had already rehearsed it in his head. But something in your expression made that composure feel fragile.
Because you weren’t angry. You weren’t even upset in the way he expected. You just… looked lost.
Your eyes moved over the paper again, slower this time, like the words refused to settle properly in your mind.
“What do you mean?” you asked, quieter now.
And that made something twist in his chest. Mingyu frowned, confusion flickering through the irritation he had been holding onto for months. “It’s a divorce, Y/n,” he said, the words landing heavier than he intended. “What else would it mean?”
You didn’t answer right away. Your grip on the paper loosened slightly, like your hands had forgotten why they were holding it in the first place. Your brows pulled together—not in anger, not in hurt but in something closer to disbelief.
“No,” you murmured, almost to yourself.
Mingyu’s jaw tightened.
He had expected resistance. Denial, maybe. Even anger. But not this. Not the way you looked at him like he had just said something that didn’t make sense. Like the idea itself didn’t belong to your reality.
“We’re not—” you started, then stopped, your voice faltering in a way he hadn’t heard in a long time. “We’re not at that point.”
Mingyu let out a short, humorless breath.
“Aren’t we?”
The question hung between you, sharp and unforgiving.
You looked at him like he was saying something unreal. Like the ground beneath you hadn’t already been breaking for months.
Mingyu watched that expression linger on your face, and for a second—just a second—something in him wavered. Then it settled. Back into something heavier. Quieter.
“I’m tired, Y/n.”
The words came out low. Not sharp. Not accusing. Just… tired. He ran a hand over his face, exhaling slowly as if even speaking took more effort than it should. “I don’t think you understand how long I’ve been tired.”
You didn’t move. Didn’t interrupt.
So he continued. “I’ve been trying to figure us out for a year now,” Mingyu said, his voice steady but worn at the edges. “Trying to understand what went wrong. What changed. What I did—what you did—what we did.”
His gaze dropped briefly to the floor before returning to you. “And every time I think I’m getting somewhere, it just—” He let out a quiet breath, shaking his head. “It just resets.”
There it was. The thing he never knew how to explain without sounding irrational.
“You act like nothing happened,” he went on, slower now, choosing his words carefully. “Or you disappear. Or you come back and it’s like we’re not even talking about the same things anymore.”
His jaw tightened slightly.
“I don’t know how to keep up with that.”
The studio felt smaller with every word. Mingyu took a step back, more for himself than for distance between you.
“I feel like I’m the only one fighting,” he said. “The only one holding onto them. The only one trying to fix something that—” He stopped, swallowing. “—that you don’t even seem to think is broken.”
Silence pressed in again. Heavy. Unforgiving.
“I used to think you stopped caring,” he admitted after a moment, his voice quieter now. “That maybe you just… fell out of love. And I tried to accept that.”
His lips pressed into a thin line.
“Because at least that would make sense.”
But this? This didn’t. Mingyu looked at you then—really looked at you—and whatever he saw didn’t ease anything inside him. It only made him more tired.
“I don’t recognize us anymore,” he said. “I don’t recognize you.”
The words weren’t harsh. But they landed harder because of it.
“And I don’t want to keep living like this,” he added, almost gently. “Coming home and not knowing which version of you I’m going to get. Wondering if anything we say to each other is going to matter the next day.”
He let out a breath that felt like it had been sitting in his chest for months.
“I can’t keep doing that.”
Your fingers tightened slightly around the papers again, but you still hadn’t said anything.
That scared him more than anger would have. So he finished it.
“I just…” Mingyu paused, his voice dipping lower, quieter—like the truth had finally settled into something he couldn’t avoid anymore. “I just want it to end.”
A beat. Then, softer—
“I want a divorce.”
No anger. No raised voice. Just a man who had run out of ways to hold something together on his own.
*
Your head was spinning by the time you stepped out of Mingyu’s studio.
The air outside felt different—too open, too sharp against your skin—as you made your way toward your car. Each step came a little uneven, like your body hadn’t quite caught up with everything that had just happened.
Your breath hitched. Something tight lodged itself in your throat as you reached for the door handle, fingers fumbling for a second before finally pulling it open. You slid into the driver’s seat, the quiet inside the car closing in around you almost immediately.Too quiet.
You shut the door. And for a moment, you just sat there. Your hands came up to your face instinctively, pressing against your eyes, your temples—like you could steady the spinning inside your head if you just held on tight enough.
Take a breath. Just—breathe. You tried.
But it came out uneven. Shallow.
“Divorce…?” The word felt wrong in your mouth. Unfamiliar. Like it didn’t belong to you.
Your brows pulled together, confusion settling deeper as you leaned back against the seat, staring blankly at the windshield. You didn’t understand. Not really.
Why would Mingyu—out of nowhere—want a divorce? The question circled, over and over, but never landed anywhere solid. Out of nowhere. That’s what it felt like.
There hadn’t been a conversation. No warning. No moment where things felt that broken. Yes, you’d been busy. Yes, things had been quieter between you. But that was normal, wasn’t it?
It had to be.
Your fingers tightened slightly against your sleeves as you tried to retrace your steps—last night, the days before, the past week—
But the thoughts didn’t line up the way they should. They slipped. Blurred at the edges. You exhaled shakily, pressing your lips together. This didn’t make sense. None of it did. Mingyu looked serious. Tired. But that didn’t match the version of things in your head.
Because in your mind, you were still trying.
You drove to the gallery on autopilot.
The roads blurred past you, familiar turns taken without thought, your hands steady on the wheel even as your mind refused to settle. By the time you pulled into the parking lot, the tightness in your chest hadn’t eased—it had only sunk deeper, quieter.
You couldn’t afford to think about it now. Not here. Not when people were waiting. You stepped out of the car, smoothing down your clothes, forcing your expression into something composed—something professional. The moment you walked through the doors, the noise of the gallery wrapped around you. Conversations. Footsteps. The low hum of a place alive with people.
Normal. Everything looked normal. You held onto that as you made your way toward your office.
But then—
Seungkwan. He was standing a few steps away, already looking at you. Not casually.bNot like he’d just noticed you. He was staring. And something about the look on his face made your steps falter, just slightly.
Before you could reach your office door, he moved—quickly, cutting you off.
“Y/n,” he called, breath uneven like he had rushed over. “What are you doing here?”
You blinked at him. “What do you mean?” you replied, frowning slightly. “I have work.”
His expression didn’t change. If anything, it deepened.
“How are you?” he asked instead, his tone shifting—careful now, like he was testing something fragile.
The question threw you off more than it should have.
“I’m fine,” you said, a little too quickly. “Seungkwan, I have a lot of things to do. No time for—” you waved your hand slightly, searching for the word, “—casualty.”
His brows furrowed.
“What?” he said, almost under his breath. Then louder, more certain, “What are you talking about?”
A pause.
Then—
“It’s been a week since you resigned.”
The words didn’t land all at once. They hit, then echoed—like your mind needed time to catch up.
You stared at him.
“…What?”
Seungkwan didn’t smile. Didn’t laugh it off like it was a joke. He just looked at you—really looked at you this time, something serious settling into his expression.
“Y/n,” he said slowly, “you said it yourself.”
Your chest tightened. “No,” you interrupted, shaking your head immediately. “Why would I do that?”
He didn’t answer right away.
And that hesitation, that was worse.
“Babe,” he said softly, the word sounding more like concern than familiarity now, “you told me you were trying to conceive. That you wanted to focus on that.”
Your breath caught.
“That’s why you resigned.”
Something in your stomach dropped.
Hard. You shook your head again, more firmly this time, even as the movement felt disconnected—like your body was reacting before your mind could.
“I never said that,” you insisted, your voice tightening. “And I never resigned.”
The words came out certain. Too certain. Because the moment they left your mouth, something flickered.
A fragment. A feeling. Not quite a memory. Your fingers curled slightly at your sides.
“That doesn’t make sense,” you added, quieter now, like you were trying to convince yourself as much as him. “Why would I resign?”
Seungkwan didn’t respond. He just watched you. You noticed it. The way he was looking at you. Not confused. Not annoyed. But worried.
“You know I don’t want to get pregnant and get those morning sickness again, Seungkwan…”
The words slipped out before you could stop them.
They hung in the air—wrong.
Your own voice sounded distant to your ears, like it didn’t quite belong to you. The moment stretched, thin and fragile, as something inside your chest tightened sharply.
Seungkwan froze.
Not dramatically. Not all at once. Just—still. His expression faltered in a way you had never seen before, the concern in his eyes shifting into something heavier. Something that made your stomach drop before he even said a word.
“Again?” he asked quietly.
Your breath caught. You blinked at him, confusion knitting your brows as your mind scrambled to catch up with what you had just said.
“I—” You stopped, swallowing. “That’s not what I meant.”
But it was. Wasn’t it? The word lingered in your head now, louder than anything else.
Again.
Your fingers curled slightly against your palm, nails pressing into your skin as if that could ground you, anchor you to something real.
“I’ve never—” you started, your voice unsteady now, “I’ve never been pregnant.”
Seungkwan didn’t answer immediately.
And that silence—
it was too long. Too careful. Too heavy.
Your heart began to pound, slow and uneven, as something cold crept up your spine.
“Y/n…” he said finally, his voice softer now, like he was approaching something breakable. “You don’t remember?”
The question didn’t feel like a question. It felt like a confirmation.
Your head shook almost instinctively, small at first, then firmer. “Remember what?” you asked, the words coming out sharper than you intended. “What are you talking about?”
But even as you said it, your chest tightened. Your body knew. Before your mind did.
A flicker, white walls. A smell you couldn’t place. Your hands gripping something—hard. Pain.
A sharp inhale tore through your throat as you staggered back a step, your hand reaching blindly for the edge of a desk to steady yourself.
It slipped. Gone before you could hold onto it.
“What—” you whispered, your voice breaking, “what is that?”
Seungkwan moved closer instinctively, but stopped himself just short of touching you, like he wasn’t sure if he should.
“You…” He hesitated, jaw tightening. “You were pregnant.”
The world tilted.
“No,” you said immediately. Too fast. Too desperate.
“No, that’s not—no.”
But the denial didn’t settle the way it should have. It didn’t feel solid. It felt like something you were trying to force into place over a crack that had already split open.
Seungkwan’s gaze didn’t leave you. “You miscarried,” he said, gently.
The word hit harder than anything else.
Miscarried.
Your breath left you in a shaky exhale, your grip tightening on the desk as your knees threatened to give out.
“That’s not possible,” you whispered..
Seungkwan didn’t say anything for a while after that. Like he had already said too much. The space between you stretched thin, fragile, filled with things neither of you seemed ready to touch. You weren’t sure how long you stood there—seconds, minutes—time felt… off. Slower. Heavier.
“They’re recruiting a new director,” he said.
Your head snapped up. “What?”
His gaze softened, but it didn’t waver. “Management made the announcement three days ago. I thought you knew.”
You didn’t. Of course, you didn’t.
“I…” Your voice trailed off, the words refusing to come together. “No one told me.”
Seungkwan hesitated, then exhaled slowly. “You weren’t here, Y/n.”
That again. That same sentence, dressed differently. Your fingers curled slightly at your sides.
“I packed your things,” he added after a moment, gesturing toward your office. “Just in case you needed them.”
You didn’t respond. You just walked past him. Each step felt heavier than the last as you pushed the door open and stepped into your office—your office. The space looked untouched at first glance. Clean. Organized. The way you always kept it. But something was off. Too neat. Too… finished.
There, on your desk, sat a box. Simple. Brown. Sealed loosely, like it had been opened and closed more than once.
You approached it slowly. Your hands hovered for a second before finally lifting the lid. Inside was your things. Files. Notebooks. Small personal items you barely registered as you shifted them aside, your movements growing more restless, more urgent—as if you were looking for something without knowing what it was.
Anything that would make sense. Anything that would prove this was wrong.
Your fingers brushed against a document. You pulled it out. Your name. Printed clearly at the top. The rest of the words blurred for a second before your vision steadied, your eyes tracing the lines slowly—too slowly, like your mind was resisting every letter.
Patient Name: Y/n.
Date: two weeks ago.
Your breath caught. And then, there it was.
Miscarriage.
The word sat there, unchanging. Unforgiving. You stared at it. Waiting for it to make sense. Waiting for something—anything—to connect. But nothing came. No memory. No image. No feeling strong enough to claim it as yours. Just… emptiness.
Your grip on the paper tightened slightly, the edges crumpling under your fingers without you realizing. Two weeks ago. You tried to think back. Tried to force your mind to go there,to that day, that moment, anything. But it was like reaching into a void. Nothing.
Your lips parted slightly, a breath escaping you that didn’t quite feel like your own.
“…No.”
It came out barely audible. Because if this was real, if this had happened, then what else had you forgotten? And why, why did your body feel like it already knew?
*
You woke up with a sharp inhale. Dark. For a second, you didn’t move. The ceiling above you felt unfamiliar—too high, the corners of the room too shadowed. Your body was stiff, like you had been lying there for hours, unmoving.
Your breath came uneven as you pushed yourself up, the sheets falling from your shoulders. The room slowly came into focus. You knew it. Your parents’ house.
The realization settled in, slow and heavy, as your eyes moved around the space. The furniture. The curtains. The faint scent lingering in the air—familiar in a way that made your chest tighten.
How did you get here? You couldn’t remember. Not the drive. Not arriving. Not even deciding to come. Nothing. A flicker of unease crept up your spine.
You swung your legs off the bed, your bare feet meeting the cold floor as you stood. The house was quiet as you stepped out of the room, the hallway dimly lit by a single lamp left on somewhere in the distance.
You checked the time. Midnight. Your brows furrowed. Why… were you here?
The thought came quickly, almost instinctive—
Mingyu.
Wouldn’t he be waiting for you? At home. The idea felt solid. Certain. Like something you could hold onto.
You stepped outside without thinking much of it, still in your pajamas, the night air brushing against your skin as you wrapped your arms around yourself. It felt colder than it should have.
Your phone was already in your hand before you realized it. You called him. It rang once. Twice.
“Hello?” His voice was there. Low. Tired. Familiar.
Your throat tightened slightly.
“Can you pick me up?” you said, the words coming out softer than you intended. “I’m at my parents’. I don’t know why I’m here…”
There was a pause on the other end. Short. But heavy.
“…Alright,” Mingyu replied finally. “I’ll be there in ten.”
The line went dead. You stood there for a moment longer, staring at your screen before lowering it slowly, something uneasy settling deep in your chest. You couldn’t name it. Only that it didn’t feel right.
Mingyu arrived exactly ten minutes later. His jeep pulled into the driveway, headlights cutting through the darkness before the engine went still. You didn’t wait. You moved toward the car immediately, opening the door and slipping into the passenger seat.
The warmth inside hit you all at once. You shut the door quietly. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The engine started again. You glanced at him from the corner of your eye.
He looked… tired. More than usual. His grip on the steering wheel was tight, his jaw set in a way that made something in your chest twist.
“You seem tired,” you said gently, trying to ease the silence. “Long day?”
The words felt normal. Casual. Like something you had said a hundred times before. Mingyu didn’t answer right away. The car kept moving. He turned his head slightly, just enough to look at you.
“Really?” he said. His voice wasn’t loud. But it wasn’t soft either. There was something under it. Something sharp.
“Are you acting right now, Y/n?”
The question didn’t land all at once. It hit. And then— everything followed. At once. Too fast. Too much. The fight. Your voice—strained, repeating the same thing over and over. The door closing. Silence stretching for days. Getting lost, No—Walking. Barefoot—Cold pavement—Hands shaking. White walls. Pain. A word. Miscarriage. Paper. Your name. Seungkwan’s voice— You resigned. You were pregnant. Mingyu. The studio. The papers in your hand. Divorce.
Your breath caught violently, your fingers gripping the edge of the seat as your head spun, the pieces crashing into each other without order, without mercy.
You froze. Completely still. Because none of it— none of it lined up. Not cleanly. Not clearly. Some of it felt real. Too real. But some of it— felt distant. Blurry. Like something you had dreamed and then half-forgotten.
Your chest rose and fell unevenly as your mind scrambled, trying to sort through it—trying to separate what was real from what wasn’t.
The car felt too small, like the air inside had been sucked out. Your breath came uneven, fingers gripping the edge of the seat as if that was the only thing keeping you grounded. Something was wrong—deeply, terribly wrong. “Mingyu…” your voice trembled, barely audible. “I… I don’t—” The words dissolved before they could form, because it started.
Not like remembering. Not clean, not whole—but like something cracking open inside your head.
A flash of white. Too bright. The sharp, sterile smell hit you first, making your stomach twist violently. You flinched, your hand flying to your abdomen without thinking. Pain followed—sudden, overwhelming—your body curling into itself as if reliving it. “Mingyu—” your voice echoed weakly in your head, breaking, but no one answered.
The car slowed, Mingyu glancing at you, saying something—your name, maybe—but you couldn’t hear him. The memories kept coming.
A phone screen. Your own reflection staring back—pale, hollow-eyed. A message half-typed: Where are you? Deleted. Typed again. Deleted again. The door closing—his voice, distant, muffled like it was underwater. I need space.
Your chest tightened painfully. “No…” you whispered, shaking your head, but it didn’t stop.
The floor was cold beneath your knees. Your hands clutched your stomach, breath breaking into uncontrollable sobs. Something warm. Wet. Your vision blurred as you looked down.
Red.
A sharp gasp tore from your throat, your body recoiling as if burned. “Mingyu—” this time louder, desperate. Still, the memory didn’t release you.
Voices—strangers. Panic, urgency. “Stay with me, ma’am—” “Call someone—does she have someone—?” Your head felt heavy, your fingers weakly gripping someone’s sleeve. “Mingyu…” barely a sound.
Then silence.
A room too quiet. Your hands resting on your stomach, and you already knew. Before anyone told you, before any words were spoken—you knew. Empty.
Time blurred. Hours, days—you couldn’t tell. Curtains drawn, your phone lighting up beside you. His name on the screen. You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.
Another shift.
You stood in front of the mirror, staring at someone who looked like you but didn’t feel like you. Your lips moved, forcing a smile that didn’t belong. “Everything’s fine.” Again. “Everything’s fine.” Again. Again.
“Y/N!”
The world snapped back violently.
The car. The road. Mingyu’s voice, closer now. His hand gripping your arm, his face tight with something between fear and disbelief. “Hey—hey, look at me—what’s wrong with you?” Your breathing came in short, broken gasps as you stared at him, not fully seeing him, because the last piece settled in—slow, heavy, unavoidable.
The paper in your hand. Miscarriage. Your name printed beneath it. Two weeks ago.
Your lips parted, but no sound came at first. Your eyes trembled as they searched his face, like you were seeing him for the first time—or finally understanding. “I…” your voice came out hollow. “I was pregnant.” The words felt distant, unreal. “I—” your breath hitched sharply. “I lost it.”
Silence filled the car, thick and suffocating.
Your fingers curled into your clothes, shaking. “And you…” your voice cracked—not accusing, not angry, just broken. “You weren’t there…”
The moment the words left you, something shifted again. Your expression faltered, confusion creeping back in, fragile and disoriented. “I…” your brows furrowed weakly. “Why weren’t you there?”
Not blame. Not yet. Just a question. A real one.
Like you didn’t remember asking it before. Like you didn’t remember living through it at all.
And that was when it truly broke—not just the memory, not just the loss, but the realization that you had lived through something that shattered you… and your mind had decided you couldn’t survive remembering it.
*
Mingyu didn’t answer. Not because he didn’t want to—but because he couldn’t.
His hand was still wrapped around your arm, fingers tightening without him realizing, like if he let go you might disappear right in front of him. His eyes searched your face, scanning every inch of it as if the answer was written somewhere there, hidden beneath your expression.
“I—what?” he let out a breathless, disbelieving sound. “What are you talking about?”
His voice came out sharper than he intended, confusion laced heavily through it. There was something else too—something unsettled, almost uneasy.
“You’re… pregnant?” he repeated, the word sounding foreign in his mouth. “Y/N, what—”
He stopped. Because you didn’t look like you were lying. You didn’t look like you were avoiding him, or deflecting, or doing that thing he had grown so used to—smiling like nothing happened, brushing everything under the rug until he was the only one left holding onto it.
No. You looked… lost. Completely, terrifyingly lost.
“I lost it,” you said again, softer this time, like you were trying to convince yourself more than him. Your eyes drifted away from him, unfocused, like you were seeing something else entirely.
Mingyu’s grip loosened slightly. Something about this felt wrong. Not wrong like your usual fights. Not wrong like miscommunication or stubbornness or hurt pride.
This felt off. Like he had walked into the middle of something he didn’t understand, something that had been happening without him even knowing.
“Y/N,” his voice dropped, slower now, cautious. “What are you saying?”
You didn’t answer him directly. Instead, you looked back at him, your expression fragile, almost childlike in its confusion. “You left,” you murmured. “You said you needed space.”
Mingyu’s brows pulled together immediately. “Yeah, I—” he started, but stopped halfway.
Because the way you said It didn’t sound like you were recalling a recent argument. It sounded like you were reliving something.
“And then…” your voice wavered, your hand instinctively pressing against your stomach again. “It hurt. I was alone.”
His stomach dropped. A strange, cold feeling crept up his spine.
“Alone?” he echoed, quieter now.
You nodded faintly, eyes glossing over. “I called you,” you whispered. “I think I did… I don’t—” Your breathing picked up again, panic slipping back in. “I don’t remember if you answered.”
Mingyu froze.
“I didn’t—” he said quickly, almost defensively. “You didn’t call me.”
But even as the words left his mouth, they didn’t sit right. Did you? He would’ve remembered, wouldn’t he?
His mind raced back, trying to piece together the timeline—the fight, him leaving, the days after. Everything felt… blurred. He remembered being angry. He remembered ignoring a few calls—no, not calls, messages. Or were they calls?
His chest tightened.
“Y/N,” he said again, but his voice had changed. Less certain. “When… when did this happen?”
You blinked at him. Slowly. Like the question itself didn’t make sense.
“I don’t know,” you admitted, your voice small, trembling. “I thought it was just today. But…” Your fingers curled into your clothes again, shaking. “They said two weeks.”
Two weeks. The words echoed in his head. Two weeks ago. Mingyu’s grip on the steering wheel tightened, his knuckles paling as something heavy began to settle in his chest. Two weeks ago, he wasn’t there.
He swallowed hard, his gaze flickering back to you. You were still looking at him like you needed him to make sense of it. Like he was supposed to explain what happened to you.
But he couldn’t. Because none of this made sense. Not the pregnancy. Not the miscarriage. Not the way you were remembering things in pieces—out of order, like broken fragments that didn’t quite fit together.
And most of all, ot the way you were looking at him right now. Like he was both familiar and unfamiliar at the same time.
Like you knew him, but didn’t fully remember what he had done. A quiet, unsettling realization crept into his mind, one he didn’t want to touch, didn’t want to fully form.
“This isn’t…” he started, his voice low, uncertain. “Y/N, this isn’t you just… pretending, is it?”
The question hung in the air. Fragile. Dangerous.
You didn’t answer him. Not right away.
Your lips parted slightly, like you wanted to say something—explain, maybe—but nothing came out. The words were there, somewhere in your head, but they felt out of reach, slipping further the harder you tried to grab them.
“I…” your voice cracked, barely holding together. “I don’t know.”
And that was it. That was the last thing keeping you from falling apart.
Your breath hitched sharply, your chest tightening like something inside had finally snapped loose. The fragments in your head—voices, images, pain, silence—crashed into each other all at once, too loud, too overwhelming.
“I don’t know what’s happening,” you whispered, but it quickly broke into something heavier, something desperate. “I don’t know what’s real, Mingyu—”
Your hands came up to your head, fingers tangling in your hair as if you could physically hold yourself together. “I remember things—but then I don’t—and it hurts and I don’t know why it hurts and I don’t—”
Your voice collapsed into a sob. Raw. Uncontrolled.
“I don’t understand,” you cried, shaking now, your whole body folding in on itself. “Why can’t I remember? Why does it feel like I forgot something important? Something really important—”
Your words dissolved into broken sobs, your breathing uneven, almost choking as you tried to take in air.
“I feel like I lost something,” you whispered weakly, your voice barely there now. “But I don’t even remember losing it…”
Mingyu didn’t think anymore. Didn’t question. Didn’t try to piece anything together. Because seeing you like this—breaking right in front of him, not pulling away, not pretending, not brushing it off. It did something to him. Something heavy. Something sharp.
“Hey—hey,” he said quickly, his voice dropping, panic threading through it as he reached for you.
You didn’t resist. Didn’t even react. Your body leaned into him the moment his arms wrapped around you, like you had nothing left to hold yourself up. His hand came up to the back of your head, pressing you gently against his chest, the other arm tightening around you as if he could keep you from falling apart any further.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured, though his voice wasn’t as steady as he wanted it to be. “Hey… it’s okay. It’s okay.”
But it wasn’t. He knew that. You knew that. Still—you clung to him.
Your fingers gripping onto his shirt, clutching it tightly as your sobs broke freely now, muffled against his chest. Your whole body trembled, each breath shaky and uneven, like you were trying to breathe through something too heavy to carry.
“Mingyu…” his name came out broken, barely recognizable. “I’m scared.”
That did it.
His arms tightened around you instinctively, his jaw clenching as something painful twisted deep in his chest.
“I know,” he whispered, his hand gently pressing against your hair, trying to soothe you even though he had no idea how. “I know… I’m here.”
Your grip on him only tightened.
“Don’t leave,” you said suddenly, the words spilling out in a fragile, desperate plea. “Please don’t leave me again—I don’t… I don’t think I can handle it if you—”
Your voice broke completely. Mingyu froze.
Again.
The words hit him harder than anything else had.
Again.
His throat tightened, something heavy lodging itself there as his mind flashed back—to the door closing, to his own voice saying he needed space, to the silence he left you in. To two weeks ago. To the time you said you couldn’t remember.
He swallowed hard, his hold on you tightening almost protectively now, like he was trying to make up for something that had already happened.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he said quietly, but this time there was something different in his voice.
“I’m here,” he repeated, softer, his hand moving gently against your hair. “I’m right here, Y/N.”
You didn’t question it. Didn’t pull away. You just held onto him tighter, like he was the only thing that still made sense in a world that suddenly didn’t.
*
The hospital felt too bright—too clean, too unforgiving. Mingyu sat outside your room, elbows resting on his knees, hands hanging loosely between them. They were still trembling, though he barely noticed anymore. Everything felt distant, like he was sitting behind glass, watching someone else’s life unfold.
You were inside. Unconscious.
Again. He didn’t know how it got to this point. One moment you were in his arms—shaking, crying, clinging to him like he was the only thing keeping you together—and the next, your body went slack. Your voice disappeared. Your grip loosened.
And just like that, you were gone.
The doctor said it wasn’t physical. Not entirely. “Severe stress response,” they called it. Something about your body shutting down because your mind couldn’t handle it anymore. Mingyu didn’t fully understand, but he knew one thing—this wasn’t normal. This wasn’t you avoiding fights or pretending nothing happened. This was something deeper. Something he had completely missed.
He dragged a hand down his face, exhaling shakily. His chest felt tight, like something was pressing against it from the inside. How long has this been happening? The question wouldn’t leave him alone. How long had you been like this… and he just didn’t see it?
Footsteps approached from the end of the hallway—soft, careful, familiar. Mingyu lifted his head slightly.
Your parents. Your mother looked like she hadn’t slept. Your father stood beside her, quieter, but just as tense. The moment their eyes met Mingyu’s, something shifted—something uneasy, something unspoken. They already knew.
“Is she awake?” your mother asked, her voice low, controlled, though the fear beneath it was obvious.
Mingyu shook his head. “No… not yet.”
Silence settled between them, heavy and suffocating. Your father nodded slowly, like he expected that answer—like this wasn’t new. And that made something twist painfully in Mingyu’s chest.
“…Has this happened before?” he asked, his voice quieter now, careful.
Your parents exchanged a look—not confusion, not surprise, but hesitation. And that alone told him more than he wanted to know.
Mingyu straightened slightly, his brows pulling together. “Please,” he said, more firmly this time. “I need to know what’s going on with her.”
Your mother’s lips parted, but no words came out at first. She looked at your father, like she needed permission—or strength. Your father exhaled slowly, then spoke.
“She’s had episodes like this before.”
The words landed heavier than they should have.
“Episodes…?” Mingyu echoed, his voice tightening.
“Not exactly like this,” your mother added quickly, her tone fragile. “But… similar. When she was younger.”
Your mother looked away this time, her fingers tightening around each other. “She went through… something,” she said carefully. “Something that affected her deeply.”
The vagueness only made his chest tighten more. “What kind of something?” Mingyu pressed, his voice sharper now. “She’s losing her memory, she collapsed in my arms, she thinks she was pregnant and lost it but doesn’t even remember when it happened—how am I supposed to understand any of this if you keep—”
“She was assaulted.”
The words cut through everything. Clean. Immediate. Mingyu went completely still.
“…What?” The word barely left him.
Your father didn’t look away. “When she was a teenager,” he said. “She didn’t tell us right away. We only found out later… when things started getting worse.”
Mingyu’s mind struggled to process it. Assaulted. You. His gaze flickered instinctively toward your hospital room door, like it didn’t match the person lying inside.
“She developed severe depression after that,” your mother continued softly. “She was on medication for a long time. It affected her body… her weight. And people weren’t kind.”
Mingyu clenched his jaw, something sharp twisting in his chest. He could almost see it now—pieces of you he never knew existed. Pain you never spoke about.
“We sent her abroad,” your father added. “A change of environment. It helped… for a while.”
“For a while,” Mingyu repeated under his breath, because clearly—it didn’t fix everything.
“Why didn’t she tell me?” he asked, quieter now, no anger left—just confusion.
Your mother gave a sad, knowing look. “She doesn’t talk about it,” she said. “Not even to us. She tries to move on. Pretend it doesn’t exist.”
Mingyu let out a hollow breath, leaning back slightly as everything started connecting—slowly, painfully. The way you avoided certain topics. The way you reacted to your body. The way you held onto control. The way you forgot.
“And the memory loss?” he asked, more hesitant now.
Your father paused, then answered, “It’s happened before. Not this severe. But when she’s under extreme stress… she dissociates.”
Mingyu closed his eyes briefly. Dissociates. So this wasn’t new. It was just worse now.
And suddenly, everything you said in the car came rushing back.
His chest tightened sharply. It wasn’t that you didn’t care. It wasn’t that you were ignoring things. It was that your mind simply couldn’t hold them—not when they hurt too much.
“And the pregnancy?” he asked, almost afraid of the answer. “Did you… know about that?”
Your parents fell silent. Your mother looked down. Your father didn’t answer. And that silence said everything.
Mingyu’s breath hitched.Because that meant—you went through it. Alone. While he was gone.
His jaw tightened, something heavy and suffocating settling in his chest. Not anger. Not frustration. Something worse. Regret.
Your mother hesitated, like she was debating whether to say more. Her fingers twisted together, eyes briefly flickering toward your hospital room before returning to Mingyu.
“Sometimes… she comes home. To us.”
“She shows up late. Sometimes in the middle of the night.”
Your mother let out a small, shaky breath. “Recently. The past few months.”
Something in his chest dropped.
“She comes crying,” your mother continued, her voice wavering now despite her effort to stay composed. “Saying you’re not home. That you haven’t been home for days. That she can’t reach you.”
Mingyu’s lips parted slightly, but no words came out. Because that didn’t make sense.
“I was home,” he said, almost instinctively. “I mean… not always, but I—” He stopped himself, his thoughts tangling. There were days he stayed longer at the studio. Nights he didn’t come back until late. Times he ignored your calls because he was still upset.
But days?
“…I didn’t leave for days,” he finished, though the certainty in his voice had already weakened.
Your father didn’t argue. Your mother only looked at him—sadly.
“She believed it,” she said. “Every time she came to us, she was convinced you were gone. That you left her.”
Mingyu felt something cold settle in his stomach.
“She would cry for hours,” your mother went on, her voice quieter now, like each word was getting harder to say. “She kept asking what she did wrong. Why you wouldn’t come back.”
His chest tightened painfully.
“She said you were upset,” your father added. “That you were tired of her. That you needed space.”
Mingyu’s jaw clenched. Because he did say that. Not once. Not lightly.
“I need space.”
The words echoed in his head now, heavier than before.
“But then…” your mother paused, her voice breaking slightly. “The next morning, she would wake up and act like nothing happened.”
Mingyu’s breath caught.
“She’d smile,” she continued. “Talk normally. Ask us why we looked so worried.”
Your father exhaled slowly. “Sometimes she didn’t even remember coming to us.”
Silence fell heavily between them. Mingyu stared ahead, but he wasn’t really seeing anything anymore. The hallway blurred slightly, his mind trying—failing—to process it all.
“She forgets?” he said, barely above a whisper.
Your mother nodded. “Not everything. But… the parts that hurt the most.”
Mingyu’s hands slowly curled into fists, resting against his knees.
Because suddenly, everything made sense in the worst way possible. The nights you accused him of being distant. The mornings you kissed him like nothing happened. The way your arguments never seemed to carry over. The way he thought you just didn’t care enough to hold onto them.
It wasn’t that you didn’t remember. It was that you couldn’t. A sharp breath left him as something twisted painfully in his chest.
“And the night…” your mother hesitated again, then continued softly, “the night she lost the baby…”
Mingyu’s head snapped up.
“She came to us,” she said. “Crying. In pain. We told her to go to the hospital, but she kept saying she needed to wait for you. That you’d come home.”
His stomach dropped.
“She kept calling you,” your father added quietly.
Mingyu froze.
“She said you weren’t answering,” your mother whispered.
His mind went blank for a second. Then, slowly, memories started creeping in. His phone buzzed. Once. Twice. Again. He remembered glancing at it. Your name lighting up the screen. And him— turning it face down. Because he was still angry. Because he needed space.
Because he thought, it could wait. Mingyu’s breathing grew shallow.
“She left after a while,” your father continued. “Said she didn’t want to bother you anymore. That she’d handle it herself.”
Your mother’s voice broke this time. “We didn’t know it would get that bad.”
Silence. Heavy. Unforgiving.
Mingyu couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak.
Because now, now he knew. You didn’t just go through it alone. You tried to reach him. And he wasn’t there.
Not because he couldn’t be. But because he chose not to be. His throat tightened painfully, something sharp pressing against it as his gaze slowly dropped to his hands.
And for the first time Mingyu realized that the moments he thought were small, the ones he brushed off as just another fight were the same moments you were breaking and reaching for him at the same time.
*
You noticed it. You had always noticed. At first, it was small. So small you could still pretend it was normal.
You would forget things—little things. Where you placed your keys, whether you had eaten, what day it was. You laughed it off, brushed it aside, told yourself you were just tired. Overworked. Distracted. But then it wasn’t just things.
It was moments. You would be in the middle of a conversation and suddenly feel like you had stepped out of your own body, like you were watching yourself speak from somewhere far away. Your voice would continue, your lips would move—but it didn’t feel like you anymore.
Like someone else had taken over for a second. You noticed it. The way time slipped. The way hours would pass without weight, without memory, without anything to hold onto when you tried to look back.
At first, you caught it. You would pause, frown, try to retrace your steps. What did I just do? What did I just say? Sometimes you could piece it together. Sometimes you couldn’t.
And when you couldn’t, that was when the fear started.
So you learned to fill the gaps. You smiled when you were supposed to smile. You spoke when it was expected of you. You followed routines, patterns, anything that could make you look normal enough so no one would notice the spaces in between.
Especially him. Especially Mingyu. You noticed how he would look at you sometimes. Confused. Frustrated. Like he was trying to hold onto something that kept slipping through his fingers.
And you hated that look. So you got better at pretending. Better at stitching things together. Better at acting like nothing ever happened. Like the fights never happened. Like the words you couldn’t remember saying were never spoken. Like the nights you cried yourself to sleep didn’t exist the next morning.
You told yourself it was easier that way.
Safer.
If you didn’t acknowledge it, then maybe it wasn’t real. If you kept moving, kept smiling, kept being—then maybe you wouldn’t have to face whatever was breaking inside of you.
But the shifts got worse. Longer. Deeper. There were days you couldn’t remember at all. Faces that felt familiar but distant. Places you didn’t remember going. Conversations that were thrown back at you like accusations, and all you could do was stare—blank, lost, guilty for something you didn’t even know you had done.
You started to question yourself. Your own mind. Did I say that? Did I do that? Or was it just… someone else wearing your skin? You noticed it.
You noticed the way fear slowly turned into something heavier. Something quieter. Something you couldn’t quite name. Until one day, you didn’t notice anymore.
The gaps stopped scaring you. Because you stopped seeing them. They became your normal. Your routine. Your way of surviving. And that terrified you more than anything ever had.
Because this was what you had been running from all along. Losing control. Losing yourself. Becoming something you couldn’t recognize. Something fragile. Unstable. Broken.
You had spent so long trying not to be that girl again. The one who needed help. The one people whispered about. The one who was too much, too heavy, too complicated to love without exhaustion.
And yet, without realizing it, without even noticing when it truly began, you became her again.
Not all at once. Not dramatically. Just slowly. Quietly. Piece by piece. Until there was nothing left of the version of you that knew how to stay.
*
Someone knocked on your door at nine in the morning. The sound felt… distant. Like it belonged to a place you hadn’t fully arrived in yet.
“Come in,” you said, though your voice came out softer than you expected.
The door opened, and a woman in a white dress stepped inside, pushing a small food cart. The wheels made a quiet sound against the floor as she approached you.
You were sitting on the bed. You noticed that. But the question came anyway. Why are you on the bed? And then, where are you?
“Ms. Ji, it’s time for breakfast,” she said gently. “I brought your favorite.”
She stopped beside you, lifting the cover from the tray. Cut fruits. Boiled eggs. Toast. Simple. Plain.
You stared at it for a moment. You felt like you should recognize it. Like your body knew something your mind didn’t.
“They look boring,” you murmured honestly. Then, after a small pause, “But… I think I like them.”
The woman smiled softly, like she had heard that before.
“I don’t remember having a favorite food,” you added, your eyes shifting to the small name tag pinned to her chest.
Suji.
“That’s okay,” Suji said, her voice calm, practiced in a way that didn’t feel cold. “You don’t have to remember anything today.”
She helped you adjust the tray on your lap, her movements careful, unhurried.
You picked up the toast. Took a bite. It was good. Not special. Not overwhelming. Just… right.
You chewed slowly, quietly, while Suji moved around the room. She reached for the remote and turned on the TV, letting the sound fill the silence just enough. Channels flickered one after another. Colors. Voices. Faces that meant nothing. Until it stopped. A news channel.
“Oh,” Suji said lightly, glancing at the screen. “That’s where you used to work. Remember?”
You paused mid-chew. You worked?
The question formed in your head, but it didn’t feel important enough to ask out loud. Instead, you shifted your gaze back to the screen, your hand reaching for a piece of fruit.
A man appeared on the screen. Well-dressed. Tall. Standing under bright lights as cameras flashed around him. There was applause. An award being handed to him. Your eyes lingered. Something, something moved. A small, quiet pull somewhere deep inside your chest. And then, before you could think—
“Kim Mingyu.”
The name slipped out of your mouth like it had always belonged there.
Suji froze slightly.
“…You know him?” she asked, her tone shifting just a little.
You nodded slowly, your eyes still on the screen. There was no confusion in your expression this time. No hesitation. Just certainty.
“Kim Mingyu,” you repeated softly.
A small pause.
Then—
“My husband.”
The words settled into the room. Heavy. Out of place. Too certain for someone who couldn’t even remember her own favorite food.
Suji looked at you, something unreadable passing through her eyes—surprise, maybe, or something closer to concern. But you didn’t notice. Because your attention stayed on the screen. On him. On the man you couldn’t remember, but somehow, your heart still did.
Suji didn’t bring it up again that morning. But she remembered. The way your voice changed when you said his name. The certainty. The quiet conviction that didn’t match the rest of you—the rest of the woman who couldn’t remember what she liked, where she worked, or even why she was there.
My husband.
It stayed with her. Later that day, during her break, Suji sat in the small staff room with your file open in front of her.
Name: Ji Y/N
Age: 56 years old
Condition: Severe dissociative amnesia with recurring identity disturbance
Guardian: —
Emergency Contact: —
Empty. All of it.
She frowned slightly, flipping through the pages again like something might appear if she looked hard enough.
Nothing did. No family listed. No spouse. No one.
For ten years, you had been there—admitted, treated, stabilized, relapsed, stabilized again. Notes written by doctors, observations by nurses, small fragments of who you used to be scattered across clinical language.
But no one had ever come. No one had ever claimed you. Suji leaned back slightly, her fingers tapping lightly against the edge of the file.
“…Kim Mingyu,” she murmured to herself. It didn’t take long. Articles came up almost immediately. Interviews. Exhibitions. Photographs. A man stood behind most of them—tall, composed, carrying an air that only came with years of recognition.
Kim Mingyu. A maestro painter. Renowned. Respected. Sixty years old.
Suji’s brows furrowed as she scrolled further, eyes scanning quickly until something caught her attention.
A profile. A short personal history. And there is a name. Yours. Listed not as current. But as something that had already ended. Former spouse.
Suji went still.
“…Former?” she whispered. Her gaze flickered back to the photo of him. Then to your name beside his. Then back again. It didn’t line up.
Not with the way you said it. Not with the way your eyes had looked at the screen. My husband. Not was. Not used to be.
She closed the file slowly. Her mind wandered back to the small things you had said over the years.
Fragments. You worked at a gallery. You liked quiet mornings. You didn’t like being alone—though you often were. You had mentioned painting once. Or maybe twice. Never clearly. Never consistently. Like pieces of a story that refused to stay in place. Ten years. You had been here for ten years.
And somehow, in all that time, that name stayed. Out of everything your mind had lost, everything it had rewritten, everything it had buried. He remained. Not fully. Not correctly. But enough.
Enough for you to recognize him without remembering yourself.
Enough to call him yours—even when the world had already written him as something else.
Suji exhaled slowly, her grip tightening slightly around her phone. There was something about it that didn’t sit right with her. A gap. A missing piece.
Or maybe too many pieces that didn’t fit together anymore. She glanced back at your file one more time. Then at the name still on her screen.
Kim Mingyu.
*
The visiting room was quiet when you stepped in. Sunlight stretched across the floor, pale and distant. The chairs were arranged neatly, untouched, like no one ever stayed long enough to leave a trace.
And then you saw him. Sitting by the window. Older. Time had settled on him in quiet ways—grey threaded through his hair, the sharpness of his youth softened into something heavier. But there was still something unmistakable about him.
Something your chest recognized before your mind could. You walked toward him slowly. He looked up. And for a moment, everything in him stilled.
Mingyu hadn’t expected this. Not this version of you. Not the softness in your eyes. Not the absence of anger. Not the way you looked at him like you were trying to place him into a story you couldn’t fully remember.
He had come here with something else in his chest. Old resentment. Old confusion. Questions that had stayed unanswered for decades. Because back then, he thought he knew. He thought you were distant.
Careless.
Cold.
He thought you chose to forget. Chose to walk past every fight like it meant nothing. Chose to leave him alone in a marriage that felt like it only existed on paper. So he left. He signed the papers. He told himself it was the only thing left to do. He never once thought you were sick.
“…Y/N,” he said, your name unfamiliar after so many years.
You stopped a few steps away. You studied him. Carefully.
“I know you,” you said softly.
Mingyu’s breath caught.
“My husband,” you added.
The word hit him harder than anything else. Not because it was wrong— but because of how easily you said it.
Like nothing had ever broken. Like nothing had ever ended.
Mingyu swallowed.
“…I was,” he corrected, his voice quieter now.
You blinked.
“…Was,” you repeated, like you were trying to understand it. There was a pause. Something flickered behind your eyes. A shadow of something heavier—
A studio.
Raised voices.
His voice—
I’m tired. I can’t do this anymore.
A paper in your hand.
The word divorce.
Your chest tightened—
And then it slipped.
Gone.
You smiled instead. Small. Polite. Like you always did when something didn’t make sense.
Mingyu felt it. That shift. That disappearance. His brows pulled together slightly.
“…Do you remember?” he asked, more carefully this time.
You looked at him again. “I think I do,” you said. Then softer— “but it doesn’t stay.”
Your fingers curled lightly against your palm.
“I was trying to tell you something,” you added suddenly.
Mingyu stilled.
“What?” he asked.
Your lips parted. This time you felt it more clearly. The weight sitting in your chest. The words pressing against your throat.
I was scared.
I was hurting.
I didn’t understand what was happening to me.
I wasn’t ignoring you—I was losing myself.
Your breathing faltered slightly.
“I—” you started.
Mingyu leaned forward just a little.
For the first time he was listening. Really listening. Not judging. Not assuming. Just waiting.
“I think… I was sick,” you said, your voice trembling faintly.
His chest tightened. “Sick how?” he asked.
You tried.
God, you tried.
“I…” Your fingers pressed against your temple, like you could hold the thoughts in place. “There was something wrong with me. I couldn’t— I couldn’t remember things. I couldn’t stay… I kept… disappearing.”
Your voice cracked.
Mingyu’s expression shifted. Confusion. Then something closer to realization.
But you weren’t done. You couldn’t be. You needed him to know.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” you whispered, your eyes glistening now. “I think… I think I was trying to tell you. Before.”
Mingyu’s breath hitched. Before. All those times you brushed things off. All those mornings you acted like nothing happened. All those empty spaces he filled with his own anger.
“…Why didn’t you?” he asked, his voice low, almost breaking.
The question wasn’t sharp. It was tired.
You shook your head weakly. “I tried,” you said. And you meant it. You really did. You tried in the silence. In the hesitation. In the moments where you looked at him, hoping he would see what you couldn’t explain.
“I just—” your voice faltered again, your thoughts slipping, unraveling even as you reached for them. “I just can’t…”
The words blurred. The meaning faded. The weight disappeared. Like it always did.
You blinked. And suddenly there was nothing. No explanation. No memory. No pain. Just emptiness.
“…I forgot,” you finished quietly.
Mingyu stared at you. At the woman in front of him. At the way your shoulders sank slightly, like even you were tired of failing to hold onto your own thoughts. And something inside him broke. Not loudly. Not suddenly. Just—quietly.
The kind of breaking that comes too late to fix anything. All those years. All those assumptions. All those times he thought you didn’t care enough to try— when you had been trying all along. Alone.
“…I didn’t know,” he said finally.
Your eyes lifted to him.
He shook his head slowly, his voice heavy with something he had never allowed himself to feel before.
“I thought you just… didn’t love me the same way anymore.”
The words hung in the air. You frowned slightly. Love. The word felt distant. Familiar. But not something you could fully reach.
“…I think I did,” you said softly.
And somehow, that hurt him more.
Silence settled between you again. But this time, it wasn’t empty. It was full of everything that had been missed. Everything that had never been understood. Everything that had come too late.
“…You liked toast,” Mingyu said after a while, his voice quieter now.
You looked at him. A small smile appeared. “I think I still do.”
When it was time to leave, you stood first. You always did. You looked at him one last time. Not holding on. Not letting go. Just… looking.
“Goodbye, Mingyu.”
He watched you walk away. And this time, he knew. He hadn’t lost you because you didn’t love him. He lost you because you were already disappearing, and he never saw it.
However, you wanted him to know, you always wanted him to know. You just couldn't. You couldn't. And you didn't remember since how long. . .
warnings : language , descriptions of blood , mafia themes
word count : 3.5 k
requested ? no
a/n : there's just something about the domestic side of mafia au's that i just love so dearly . secretly soft and fragile mafia leader crying in the arms of their loved one >>>>>>> ruthless and cold mafia leaders .
The day you stood by Seungcheol at the altar, you promised a myriad of unconditional vows, as did he. For better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and health— until death do you part. To love him without doubt and cherish the heart he had so willingly placed in your care. You swore to cradle it with gentle hands; to keep it safe from shattering until the very last beat.
You were prepared for that. Excited, even.
But as Seungcheol limps through the entrance of the home you've built together, you feel your confidence in that pact falter for the first time. Perhaps you'd missed something in your vows. The part that told you what to do when the love of your life comes home stained in red. From his white button-up to his polished shoes— even his sweet, sweet face— tarnished.
You don't want him to hear the way your voice trembles. But God, that stench. That pungent scent of iron coats your throat and you can't help the way it constricts to keep the subsequent wave of nausea at bay.
"Cheol?"
His head snaps up at you like he's just now realized where he is. Glazed-over eyes connect with the wood floors you'd spent an hour mopping, then to his shaking hands painted in crimson, before that stale gaze finally lifts and meets your own.
"Are you hurt?"
He shakes his head.
"Seungcheol..." You take cautious steps his way, like how one would approach a wild deer. "Who's blood is this?"
Tears are in his eyes, but his face remains rigid. Like his brain is stuck in survival mode, but his emotions are leaking out.
"Chan's."
The boy's name hits your ears like venom. Sweet, gentle, kind, Lee Chan. The youngest intern under Seungcheol's leadership, you'd met him once at a company dinner. You don't think you've ever met someone with such a heart of gold. And it's a little hard to imagine you could be staring at all that's left of him. "Oh my God, is he okay? What happened?"
Seungcheol's face twists at your questions, some memory pulling at his brows and forcing his eyes shut. They open with fresh tears and the first ounce of clarity cracks through his otherwise dazed state.
"He's in the hospital—" You see the words catch in his throat. His fist repeatedly pounds against his thigh and his mouth hangs open until the words finally come. "It's my fault. He's just a kid, this is all my fault— he shouldn't have been there. They shouldn't have been able to get to him. It was too dangerous, he wasn't ready."
Nothing of his fragmented words makes any sort of sense. You've never seen him like this, so frazzled, so pitiful, so... broken. The sight of it twists your heart, contorting in your chest to such an unnatural degree there's a physical ache.
So, despite the nausea burning your esophagus and the screams of protest deep within your bones, your arms open and gravity pulls Seungcheol into them with labored steps. His knees buckle instantly at the contact and it takes every ounce of strength in your arms to catch him. Letting yourself sink with him to soften the fall; even if that means your knees land with a painful thud, already able to feel purple bruises blossoming from the impact.
Because you love him.
Because you vowed not only for better but for worse as well. And vows are only as good as the turmoils they prove to withstand.
Calloused hands grip the sides of your shirt. You try to ignore the stains they leave, pushing your focus onto the man before you on the brink of hysterics. His forehead falls to your chest, and that's when the most wretched sobs you've ever had the displeasure of hearing begin. Loud and sharp, like the blade of a sword, as they slice through the eerily still night.
A chill creeps in from where your knees connect with the hardwood and crawls up the length of your spine. It nests in your mind and metastasizes, igniting alarms in that little part of your brain that warns: you should be scared. Though it doesn't grant you the knowledge of what.
"Baby, what happened?" You ask and recite a silent prayer the answer to that is not him.
He sobs out an unpromising, "I can't."
"Seungcheol, there is too much blood for that shit. You need to tell me what the hell is going on." Your eyes are starting to burn with the flood breaching your lashes, unsure how much longer you can force an ease into your tone.
You need him to just spit it out. Before your heart explodes.
You steady his head between your palms and swipe at the blood spatter decorating his jawline. It just smears, mixing with his tears and tinting more of his cheek in a dull brownish-red. Seungcheol looks at you with eyes that scream please don't hate me and you don't know but... you know. Enough that when the confession finally pours from his lips, the shock doesn't totally shatter your ribs on impact. Instead, the words slowly seep into your skin and enter your bloodstream like a bitter poison.
Suddenly, minuscule details make much more sense, revealing the full picture like a jigsaw puzzle falling into place. The nights he doesn't return until the sun breaches the horizon. The general air of mystery around his job and the "family business" he took over years ago. How insistent he had been with you learning some type of self-defense. All the way down to the dried blood that lingered under his fingernails.
You should be levels more upset than you are at his confession. Any normal person would be. He lied to you, for years. Hid a secret so large it could easily blow a crater in the earth should the measly stilts it balanced on collapse. Yet, the anger you feel doesn't boil over into a blind rage. It stirs with concern and simmers until it has been diluted into nothing but the type of anger that can only be fueled by love. It comes with the terrifying revelation that the person you love most in this world, could've been stolen from you at any moment and you would've been none the wiser as to how. It makes you want to hold him a little extra in the mornings, a little harder, closer.
Then, somewhere, in that tangled web of emotions fighting to reach the surface, there's an unexpected relief. Because one thing has been glaringly obvious since the day you met Choi Seungcheol. The reason he appears as such a pillar of strength relies solely on the fact that he shoulders the weight of the world alone. Rarely does he let his struggles reach his cheery expression. You can't help but think, now that you know, there's one less burden he has to carry by himself.
"Please don't leave me," Seungcheol rasps out. You'd nearly forgotten where you were for a moment. Forgot his face was still between your hands, that blood still smeared his cheek, and tears were still slipping from his lashes. But at this moment, as those weary earth-brown eyes search your face for an answer, you realize just how malleable your morals are when it comes to him.
"I love you." You confess, like it's the first time the phrase has ever left your lips. "Cheol, I love you more than anything in this world." So much it frightens you what you're willing to forgive.
But then again it doesn't. Because he's never been Choi Seungcheol, the city's most feared mob boss. To you, he's always just been Cheol. The man that nearly burned your kitchen down two anniversaries ago trying to make you breakfast in bed. Who pouts and whines when you haven't given him enough attention after work. Who's touch has only ever been as gentle as a Summer's breeze. And maybe you're naive, but you'd like to believe the Seungcheol that peppers your face with kisses every morning and begs for five extra minutes in bed is a truer reflection of his heart than his job.
With one final deep breath to steel your nerves and silence the brigade of questions swirling in your head, you press a long kiss to his temple— one of the only areas not tainted with red. The tension in his muscles visibly melts away at the contact and beyond anything he just looks... tired. You want nothing more than to let him rest in the safety of your arms, but he's still covered in Chan's blood.
"Let's get you cleaned up, yeah?" You coax him from the floor, never once letting your voice slip above a gentle whisper. He tries to protest, insisting he needs to be at the hospital with the others to check on Chan, but puts up absolutely no fight when you tell him that can wait until tomorrow as you guide him towards the bathroom.
You gather towels and fresh clothes and lay them out on the vanity. "Take your time, okay? I won't go far, promise." With one last reassurance, you leave Seungcheol in privacy to shower and clean the blood from his skin.
Alone now, the adrenaline in your veins dissolves, and the full gravity of everything finally crashes around you. The metallic scent lingering in the air, the drying blood on the hardwood, the feeling of impending doom that comes with a truth so heavy. It's too much, at least to bear in such a tiny apartment. You all but sprint out the front door, accidentally letting it shut with a hefty slam.
The warm Summer night air hits your skin and wraps around you like a security blanket. You inhale deeply, once, twice, thrice, and on the fourth breath, it feels like the oxygen finally reaches the base of your lungs.
You sit, for a length of time you remain ignorant to, at the bottom of the stairwell. Lost deep in thought until the buzzing of your phone reverberates from your back pocket. You look at it but— no caller I.D.
Answering it anyway, a sense of comfort fills you at the familiar voice.
"Jeonghan." You greet.
"I'm sorry to call so late," He says, voice languid. "I just wanted to know if Seungcheol got home safe yet."
"He did."
There's a long pause of silence. Just the steady beeps of a heart monitor on the other side of the line. Then, "Is Chan okay?"
"Yeah, he's sleeping right now. Doctors gave him some of the good shit to knock him out for the night." There's a hesitance to the way he speaks and you think perhaps he's weighing in his mind what excuse Seungcheol might have told you as to why Chan is even in the hospital to begin with.
"Jeonghan, can I ask you something?"
"I can't promise I'll have an answer, but sure." He's always been so calculated in the way he speaks, which makes sense to you now.
You chew at the inside of your cheek. "Seungcheol, he... He keeps himself safe, right?"
"You know." He sighs, matter of fact.
"I do."
"He's careful, smart, keeps his hands clean-ish. We all look after each other, he's about as safe as he can be." The man on the other end of the line yawns, and you wonder how long he's been up wondering if Seungcheol made it home before he finally called. That in and of itself should comfort you and prove Seungcheol has people who care about him when you're not around, but it doesn't. You don't think anything ever could at this point. Perhaps it was better not knowing the truth.
"That doesn't exactly make me feel better."
Jeonghan snorts. "I didn't think it would."
Another stretch of silence spans over the line for an uncomfortably long time. So long, you begin to think maybe the call disconnected. But that steady beeping is still there, quiet, but there.
Then Jeonghan speaks, his sudden words sending ice pricking through your veins. "You're an accomplice now, you know?" His voice carries no emotion. It's as if he's reading the words straight from an instruction manual. "Unless, of course, you turn him in."
Oh.
You hadn't thought of that.
"Would you?"
His question lingers in the air like smoke, suffocating your airways so much it feels like you might choke before you can even answer.
Never has the idea of betraying Seungcheol's trust ever been a thought in your head, much less an option. But he's right. Your newfound knowledge makes you just as much a criminal in the eyes of the law as if you had committed the act yourself. It's either fess up while you still can or guard his secret with, quite literally, your life.
Perhaps you were a bit hasty. It was easy to hold Seungcheol in your arms and whisper comforting words between his sobs. However, when it comes to your own fate, you're forced to reckon with the dread that washes over you like a bucket of ice, alone.
Still, you're embarrassed that not even a shred of doubt weighs your decision. Just an immeasurable amount of guilt.
"No."
"You don't sound so sure."
"It's a lot to process." You defend, trying not to let your voice waver too much under Jeonghan's scrutiny.
"I know it is," He relents, and suddenly, his voice shifts back to the soothing, angelic tone you've always been used to. "I'm sorry, I haven't even asked how you're feeling."
The conversation lulls in what you assume is Jeonghan leaving space for you to share if so you wish. You don't— knowing that if you were to loosen even a single thread tethering your mind in the realm of sanity, it would all unravel. You've only just begun to construct the brittle wall that separates your Seungcheol from the one covered in blood. If it were to take a blow so early and come crumbling down, you fear you may not have the strength needed to start over.
Your current position is precarious and emotions are already tricky— pouring them out to Seungcheol's best friend even more so.
"I'm fine. I should probably get back to Cheol." You say instead.
Jeonghan hums. "He's had a rough night." Steady beeps still pulse like a metronome in the background, mixing with a subtle chatter. "Let him know everyone is okay and if you two need anything, just call."
"I'll tell him."
"That means you too."
A voice calls Jeonghan's name and the line goes dead before you can say anything more. Not that you had much else left to say— or anything that would be news to Jeonghan at least. It felt like he knew more about your spinning mind in one phone call than you'd pieced together since Seungcheol stumbled through the door.
Seungcheol.
Seungcheol, who's been alone in your tiny apartment for who knows how long at this point. With nothing but his thoughts and a water heater that runs out far too quickly to comfort him. Your heart aches at the idea of him crumpled up in the basin of the porcelain tub alone.
Seungcheol, whom you find sitting at the kitchen island with his head in his hands— hunched over a steaming mug of tea— upon your return. His hair hangs down in damp strings, dripping onto his pair of comfort sweatpants, the ones he tends to gravitate towards when he's had a long day.
The door clicks shut behind you and his head snaps up with lightning quick reflexes. A wild look flashes in his eyes, but it melts away almost as quick as it came. His shoulders slump with relief and for what seems like an eternity, he just let's his gaze linger.
"I didn't think you were coming back." He rasps. His fingers curl around the mug, siphoning off some of its warmth to combat the slight chill in the air.
His hands are clean now— free of any trace of dark red— then again, they never really were. Probably never will be.
"To be honest, I wasn't completely sure I was." You're still some distance away from where he sits, a fact you're made painfully aware of by the way his eyes flit between you and the door. As if he expects you to flee at any moment.
"I would understand, you know?" His voice is as soft and genuine as it was the day he said I do. "I wouldn't be mad. My job, this life, it was never supposed to be your burden. You can walk out and I wouldn't—" His voice catches and he takes a swig of his tea, cringing at the temperature as it goes down. "—I wouldn't stop you."
You know he wouldn't. Because Choi Seungcheol is a good man. There would not be a ring on your finger if he wasn't. It's why you're so comfortable closing the distance that separates you two.
It's why you're so comfortable excusing all of his wrongs.
"I'm not going anywhere."
"You should." He croaks. Tears gather at his waterline and on instinct, you wipe the first to fall away. But more continue to silently slip down his cheeks. Unable to catch them fast enough, you step between his legs and guide his forehead to your shoulder with a gentle hand on the back of his neck.
Seungcheol lets out a shaky breath as your fingers trail down the nape of his neck to just between his shoulders, then back up again. You hold him. Just as you've held his heart for years. Delicate. Like handling glass.
"I love you," He whispers. "I'm sorry I lied, I— all I ever wanted was to keep you safe."
"I know."
He tilts his head back, staring up at you with damp cheeks and bloodshot eyes. "I don't deserve you."
You tuck a piece of hair that's fallen into his eye behind his ear. "I could find you in a thousand lifetimes and there wouldn't be a single one where that'd be true."
"I'd still spend every one of those thousand lifetimes making it up to you." His hands grip your hips, holding you steady, as if he's still scared you'll run away.
"You." You hold the underside of his chin so he can't divert his gaze for your next words. Your tone is a firm, bordering on authoritative. "Make it up to me by coming home."
Seungcheol nods, but it's not a good enough answer for you.
"Don't ever make me plan your funeral, Choi Seungcheol. Do you understand? You cannot do that to me."
"I won't."
"Promise me. Because I swear if I ever have to hear from Jeonghan that you're not coming home I swear I'll—"
Seungcheol takes your hand from his chin and pulls it flat against his chest. The quick but rhythmic beats of his heart calms your barrage of threats instantaneously.
"I promise."
The words leave his lips slowly. Each syllable is enunciated loud and clear, so the sincerity with which he says them can reach your ears without doubt. His words linger in the air and all you can focus on is his pulse. How terrified you are that one day it'll stop before your own. That there could come a night where your head rests against empty sheets instead of his chest. No longer lulled to sleep by its steady beating.
That thought rattles you more than any crime Seungcheol could commit.
It takes Seungcheol's thumb grazing over your cheekbone to realize you're crying. But then it becomes unstoppable. More worries spilling out in the form of tears. It's the not knowing that may be the end of you.
"I want you in this lifetime, Cheol. I don't want to wait until the next to live a full life with you. So I need you to keep that promise."
Seungcheol rises from his seat and brings you into his chest. Allowing you to hide away from the horrors of it all in his strong embrace. "There's nothing I wouldn't do to make it home to you." He reassures. And the sheer determination in his voice makes you believe him.
"And no more secrets, okay?" You mumble against the soft fabric of his shirt. "I want you to tell me everything."
"It's better if I don't." He whispers with a deep exhale. And you want to be more upset with his answer than you are. But he keeps rocking you side to side and pressing long kisses to your temple.
"All you need to know is that none of it comes before you." The sincerity in his voice is as prominent as it was reciting his vows. "Everything I've built. All the money and power in the world— I'd burn it all to the ground for you."
The Base Note
Choi Seungcheol X f! Reader
MDNI | Mature | Explicit | Smut
Your clinical composure as an introverted perfumer completely unravels during a high-tension skin-chemistry analysis when SEVENTEEN’s leader, Choi Seungcheol, uses his wits and charm to shatter your strict professional boundaries.
The compounding room hummed with the quiet symphony of climate control, a steady whisper of filtered air, the distant gurgle of a distillation unit cycling through its phases, the soft tick of the magnetic stirrer. You preferred it here. Four stories underground, windowless, bathed in the sterile blue-white glow of color-corrected LEDs calibrated to daylight brightness. No distractions. No small talk. Just some science and math.
Your domain. Your sanctuary.
The charcoal-grey silk blouse sat crisp against your collarbones, the top button secured exactly at the hollow of your throat. Your fingers, gloved, size extra small, hovered over a rack of glass pipettes arranged by volume in descending order. Ten milliliters. Five. Two. One. Each one sterile, each one waiting.
The formula on your workstation monitor glowed in neat columns. A skeleton of a fragrance, all structure and no heart yet. You’d been nursing this composition for six weeks, stealing hours between commercial briefs to perfect the dry-down. It needed something warm. Something that breathed.
The door to the compounding room swung open with a quiet whoosh.
“There you are.”
Director Park Min-ji’s heels announced her arrival three seconds before her voice did. She navigated the narrow aisle between workbenches with the practiced urgency of someone who considered walking a waste of time. Her tablet was already extended toward you like a warrant.
“I need you upstairs.”
You didn’t look up from the pipette you were slotting into its holder. “I’m in the middle of a trial. The formula needs another forty minutes.”
“The Hedione can wait.”
“With respect, Director, it literally cannot. That’s how chemistry works.”
Min-ji exhaled through her nose—a sound you’d catalogued over eighteen months of working under her as exasperation, level four. She set the tablet down on your clean bench directly on top of your printed chromatograms, which you recognized as a deliberate provocation.
“Choi Seungcheol is here.”
The name meant nothing to you.
Your expression must have communicated as much because Min-ji’s eyes widened fractionally behind her narrow Prada frames. “SEVENTEEN’s leader? The one with the—” she gestured vaguely toward her own face, “—the jawline? He’s doing a solo brand ambassadorship. Luxury men’s fragrance line. Massive contract. His team reached out last week.”
You pulled off your gloves, snapping the left cuff with practiced efficiency. “I don’t handle celebrity briefs. Ellie does the pop star accounts. She speaks their language.”
“Ellie gave him three custom samples last Tuesday. He rejected all of them.” Min-ji’s voice dropped, losing its corporate sheen. “His exact words were ‘boring.’ Then he asked if we had anyone more… specialized. Someone who’d actually think about his skin instead of just pushing market-tested accords.” She paused, letting the implication settle. “He specifically requested you. By reputation.”
Your hand stilled on the drawer handle.
“I don’t have a reputation. I work in a basement.”
“You have a reputation for being the most stubborn nose in this building,” Min-ji said, and there was something almost like admiration in her tone. “He wants a live skin-chemistry analysis. Top-floor executive office. Now.”
The executive floor smelled like money. Not the sharp metallic kind that changed hands in boardrooms, but the quiet, settled wealth of polished mahogany and hand-tufted wool carpets and the faint, bitter ghost of expensive espresso. The corridor stretched endlessly, lined with abstract art you suspected was chosen by a consultant specifically to look like it hadn’t been chosen by a consultant.
Your leather portfolio case weighed heavy in your left hand, filled with glass vials, sterile pipettes, scent strips, and a battered lab notebook that predated your employment at the brand by half a decade. Your right hand stayed empty, fingers curling and uncurling against your palm.
It’s just another skin analysis. Volatile top notes. Elevated skin temperatures. How the oils lock into the skin. You’ve done this two hundred times.
The executive assistant pushed open the heavy double doors and gestured you inside.
The room was vast. Floor-to-ceiling windows flooded the space with cold light, Seoul’s skyline sprawling gray and glittering beyond the glass. A mahogany conference table dominated the center—massive, old-growth, the kind of furniture that had witnessed corporate takeovers and hostile negotiations. You set your portfolio down and began arranging your instruments with the mechanical precision of a surgical nurse: pipettes parallel, vials grouped by weight, scent strips fanned exactly five degrees apart.
The door opened again behind you.
You didn’t turn. You were adjusting the fluid line in a graduated cylinder, holding it at eye level, and you would finish this measurement before you acknowledged anyone. It was a small act of control, and you needed it.
“They really do keep you hidden downstairs.”
The voice was low. Rough at the edges, like velvet dragged against the grain. It registered somewhere in your chest before it reached your ears.
You set down the cylinder and turned.
Choi Seungcheol filled the doorway.
That was your first thought—not that he stood in it, but that he filled it, the broad line of his shoulders cutting a silhouette against the corridor light. His suit was unstructured, expensive, thrown on with the casual disregard of a man who understood that looking effortless required more effort than looking meticulous. Beneath the jacket, a black tee draped low across his chest, the neckline plunging far enough to reveal the hard architecture of his collarbones.
His face was sharper than the photos you’d never bothered to look at. Strong jaw. Dark, observant eyes that tracked across the room and landed on you with an intensity that felt almost physical.
You bowed. Formal. Precise. A perfect forty-five-degree angle timed to exactly two seconds.
“Choi Seungcheol-ssi. I’m the senior perfumer assigned to your brief. I’ll be conducting your skin-chemistry analysis this afternoon.”
His head tilted. A fractional movement. “You bow like a CEO.”
“I bow like someone who respects professional boundaries.”
The corner of his mouth twitched.
Behind him, a small entourage hovered—a manager, an assistant, someone holding a garment bag. Seungcheol half-turned toward them, lifting one hand in a casual dismissal. “Give us the room.”
“Seungcheol-ah, the schedule—”
“The schedule can wait.” His tone didn’t sharpen, but something in it shifted—an assumption of authority so natural it didn’t need volume. “I’ll text when we’re done.”
The manager hesitated. The assistant glanced nervously at the garment bag. Seungcheol didn’t repeat himself. He simply stood there, patient, immovable, a man entirely comfortable with silence as a negotiation tactic.
They left.
The heavy boardroom doors clicked shut behind them. Seungcheol reached backward without looking, his fingers finding the brass lock, and turned it with a sound that echoed in the quiet room.
Click.
Slow. Deliberate. Final.
He moved into the room like he owned it—which, you realized belatedly, he probably did now, or at least his endorsement contract did. He didn’t sit in the executive chair at the head of the table. Instead, he leaned against the edge of the mahogany surface directly beside your arrangement of vials, his hip resting against the wood, his arms crossing over his chest.
He was close. Closer than a client needed to be. Close enough that you could smell him beneath the dry-cleaned wool of his jacket—something warm and clean, cedar maybe, and underneath it the faint salt of skin.
“So.” His eyes traveled over your face, your high buttoned collar, your glasses, your rigid posture. The smirk that had been threatening finally arrived—slow and lazy, pulling at one corner of his mouth. “You’re the genius they keep hidden downstairs.”
“I’m a perfumer.”
“Same thing.” He uncrossed his arms, letting one hand rest on the table beside him, his fingers long and relaxed against the dark wood. “I was told you were a tough one.”
You reached for the glass rod you’d prepared—musk base, a high concentration of ambergris, the raw materials still viscous and clinging. “I’m thorough. There’s a difference.”
“I like tough.”
He said it the way someone might comment on the weather. Casual. Warm. Utterly assured.
You ignored the way his voice curled around the words and stepped forward, the glass rod held between your thumb and forefinger. A single drop trembled at the tip, catching the light.
“I need your wrist please.”
Seungcheol didn’t extend his arm.
Instead, he pushed off from the table and stepped into your space. One step. Then another. Until the toes of his leather shoes nearly met the tips of your practical low heels, and you had to tilt your chin upward to maintain eye contact, and the air between you grew dense with the scent of musk concentrate and something else—something warmer, something alive.
His hand found yours.
Large fingers wrapped around your wrist first. The grip was gentle but absolute, the pad of his thumb settling directly over your pulse point and pressing down with just enough pressure to feel the rhythm beneath your skin.
Your heart stuttered.
“Your hands are cold,” he murmured, his thumb tracing a slow arc across the blue veins at your wrist. “Do they always run cold, or is that just for me?”
The glass rod trembled. You steadied it through sheer professional will.
“My hands are temperature-regulated for chemical stability. Heat compromises volatile compounds.” The words came out clipped, clinical. Good. That was the armor. That was the wall. “I’d appreciate it if you’d allow me to do my job, Sir.”
His eyes met yours. Dark. Amused. Watching you with the patient, predatory stillness of someone who’d spotted a crack in the facade and was deciding whether to slip through it.
He released your wrist.
But he didn’t step back.
“Do your job, then.”
You took his hand with more force than necessary, flipping it palm-up and pressing your fingertips to the wide plane of his wrist. His skin radiated heat, higher than average temperature. You noted distantly, probably elevated due to recent activity or baseline metabolic rate. Beneath the surface, the steady thrum of his pulse beat against your index finger.
You dabbed the musk base onto his pulse point. The liquid bloomed against his skin, the top notes already beginning to evaporate, shifting from sharp alcohol to something warmer, deeper.
“I’m going to test a secondary accord now,” you said, your voice steady. “A leather and heated-skin base. It requires proximity to the artery to assess projection.”
“Proximity to the artery.” He repeated the phrase like it was a punchline only he understood. “Is that the scientific term for my neck?”
“It’s the anatomical term.”
“Of course.” That smirk again. “Please. By all means. Be anatomical.”
You didn't answer. Instead, you tapped the edge of the heavy mahogany table and pointed toward the adjustable leather seat positioned in the center of your workspace. “Sit on the stool, please. I need you at a specific height for the secondary application.”
Seungcheol let out a low, amused huff but complied, sliding his broad frame onto the seat. He hooked his heels over the lower rungs, his knees naturally parting wide to accommodate his frame as he looked up at you, his dark eyes brimming with anticipation.
You set down the glass rod. Selected a fresh scent strip. Dabbed it with the leather accord—rich and dark and something warmer beneath, something that smelled like sun-heated skin.
Then you stepped between his knees.
He’d settled back against the table’s edge, his legs parting slightly to accommodate your approach, and the position was, it was professional, you could perform a skin analysis from this angle, you’d done it before with other clients, there was nothing untoward about a perfumer standing in the V of a seated client’s knees.
His thighs bracketed your hips. Not touching. But close. Close enough that the heat of his body reached you through the layers of your trousers and his suit fabric, and every instinct in your introverted, boundary-protecting soul began screaming for you to step back.
You didn’t step back.
You raised the scent strip toward the side of his throat. His skin was smooth there, freshly shaved, the tendon of his neck curving down toward that architectural collarbone. You pressed the strip to his pulse point, the carotid, right at the angle of his jaw. You leaned in to assess the scent trail.
Your face hovered inches from his throat.
Leather. Wood. The faint, sweet salt of human skin. And beneath it, something else. Something that wasn’t on the scent strip, something that was him, a warm and slightly spicy note that the chemicals were lifting and amplifying and throwing into the air between you like a challenge.
Your breath caught.
You heard it happen. A tiny stutter in your exhalation, right against his throat, where he could absolutely feel it.
Seungcheol tilted his head back.
The movement was slow. Almost lazy. His chin lifted, exposing the long column of his throat, and his eyes dropped to watch you from beneath heavy lids. The intensity in his gaze shifted, the playfulness draining away, replaced by something heavier, something that made your stomach drop and tighten in a way you refused to name.
His hand moved.
You didn’t register it until his palm was already there, spreading warm and broad across the small of your back, his fingers splaying over the silk of your blouse. He didn’t pull. He didn’t yank. He just pressed, firm and steady. Exerting a pressure that drew you a fraction of a centimeter closer to him, until the heat of his thighs was no longer a theoretical measurement but a tangible presence brushing against your trousers.
“You smell like clean soap and expensive paper, Director.” The whisper brushed against your cheek, low and rough, intimate enough to qualify as a secret. His thumb traced the ridge of your spine through the silk. "Let's see how long you can keep that up."
he words hit your brain a full second after they hit your nervous system.
Your body understood before your mind did, the sudden flush of heat blooming across your cheeks, the sharp punch of your pulse at your throat, the way your fingers tightened on the scent strip until the cardboard bent.
You snapped backward.
The movement was graceless, unprofessional, a retreat rather than a step. His hand fell away from your back as you broke contact, and you used the sudden cold absence of his touch to rebuild the walls that had crumbled so spectacularly in the space of three seconds.
“The—the top notes.” Your voice came out higher than you intended. You cleared your throat, forcing it back into your usual serious, professional tone. “The citrus elements in this blend fade very quickly when the skin gets too warm. Most regular perfumes use heavy artificial chemicals to force those fresh scents to last longer, but the problem is those chemicals leave a waxy, fake after-scent that ruins the natural warmth of your skin. If you try to fix that with more synthetic boosters, the fragrance loses all its crisp clarity, and the whole blend just collapses into a cheap, generic smell you could buy at any department store for forty thousand won, which is—”
You were talking too fast.
The words tumbled out in a torrent, syllables tripping over each other, and you couldn’t stop. The intellectual yapping had engaged—your primary defense mechanism, the emergency flood-wall that rose whenever human interaction threatened to breach the carefully maintained levee of your composure.
““—and then there’s the issue of the heavier musk molecules, which are physically larger and need healthy, hydrated skin oils to really lock into place. That is exactly why skin type matters so much when making a custom perfume. If someone has really dry skin, it won't hold onto those deep base notes for more than an hour, no matter what kind of ingredients you use to try and trap the scent—”
You were pacing now. Actually pacing. Back and forth across the executive carpet, one hand gesturing while the other clutched the bent scent strip like it was a lifeline.
Seungcheol watched you.
He’d settled back against the table, arms crossed, the pose relaxed but his eyes tracking your every movement with an attention so focused it felt almost indecent. The smirk had widened—not mocking, exactly, but deeply, authentically amused, the expression of a man watching something unexpected and delightful unfold.
Your cheeks were on fire.
You knew they were. You could feel the heat radiating from your skin, a humiliating pink flush that contradicted every word of clinical detachment coming out of your mouth. Your glasses had slipped half an inch down your nose, and you pushed them up with a jab of your finger, still talking.
“—and the average human nose can distinguish about a trillion different scents, but the whole industry just keeps churning out the exact same four basic blends and calling it innovation. That is why I never take celebrity projects. It isn’t because I have anything against celebrities, but because their requests are always identical—make it sexy, make it last all day, make it smell like me but better. There is no real science to it, just marketing, focus groups, and—””
“Are you done?”
The interruption was gentle. Almost fond.
You stopped mid-stride, your lecture derailing so abruptly that you swayed slightly in place. Your chest heaved. You’d run out of oxygen somewhere around heavier musk molecules.
Seungcheol uncrossed his arms. He didn’t laugh at you, though the corner of his mouth twitched again, and the fondness in his expression deepened into something that made your breath catch for an entirely different reason.
“You’re cute when you’re panicking,” he said.
“I’m not panicking. I’m educating.”
“Your glasses are fogging up.”
They were. You ripped them off your face and polished them on the hem of your blouse with more aggression than the task required. When you shoved them back onto your nose, Seungcheol was watching you with his head tilted, that patient amusement still radiating from him like heat from a banked fire.
“I have a questionnaire,” you announced, your voice edging toward shrill. “A comprehensive client intake form. For the brief. We should—I need to gather your preferences before I can formulate anything useful.”
“A questionnaire.” He said it like you’d proposed a medieval duel.
“Yes. It’s standard procedure.”
You snatched your portfolio from the table, unzipped it with a decisive hiss, and produced a four-page document covered in dense, single-spaced text. You’d written it yourself three years ago during a particularly frustrating celebrity brief that had gone through seventeen rounds of revisions. No one had ever actually completed it. Most clients took one look and surrendered to whatever the marketing team recommended.
You dropped it onto the table between you with the force of a gauntlet thrown.
Seungcheol glanced at it. Then back at you. Then back at the questionnaire, his eyebrows climbing incrementally as he took in the sheer density of the text.
“Sit here please,” you commanded, leading him to the executive chair. “We’ll go through it line by line.”
He sat.
To your absolute astonishment, he sat. He pulled out the heavy leather chair, settled into it with the languid grace of a man who had never been uncomfortable in his life, and folded his hands on the table like a student waiting for an exam.
You sat across from him. Poised your pen. Refused to look him in the eye.
“Question one. Preferred scent profiles?”
“Warm.” He answered immediately. No hesitation. “Something that feels like skin after the sun goes down. Not cologne-y. Not like I’m trying to announce myself.”
Your pen scratched across the paper. Warm. Post-sun skin. Avoid overtly cologne-y elements.
“Notes you dislike?”
“Anything aquatic. I don’t want to smell like a shower gel.”
No marine accords. No aquas. “Longevity expectations?”
“Eight hours minimum. But not aggressive. I want it to fade into something intimate.” He paused. “Something you’d have to get close to notice.”
The way he said close made your pen slip. You corrected the line and refused to acknowledge the heat crawling up the back of your neck.
“What kind of trail do you want to leave behind?”
He leaned forward.
The movement was unhurried. Deliberate. His forearms settled on the mahogany, his shoulders broadening with the shift, and suddenly the table felt much smaller than it had a moment ago.
“Something heavy,” he said, his voice dropping into that lower register that seemed designed to bypass your ears and sink directly into your chest. “Something that stays on a person’s skin long after I’ve left the room.” His head tilted, those dark eyes catching yours and holding them. “Don’t you agree, Director?”
You wrote furiously.
High sillage/heavy projection. Persistent skin adhesion. Late-stage dry-down with intimate throw distance.
You did not look at his lips. You did not think about the way his mouth shaped the word skin. You did not notice the tiny scar at the corner of his lower lip, or wonder how it would feel against—
“Next question,” you snapped, flipping the page with more force than necessary.
e knock came like a rescue flare.
Sharp. Professional. Three quick raps against the boardroom door, followed by the rattle of the brass handle. “Seungcheol-ah?” His manager’s voice, muffled through the heavy wood. “We really have to go. The styling team is waiting for the next shoot, and traffic is building.”
Seungcheol sighed.
The sound was quiet, almost private—a release of breath that carried something too complex to name. Then the idol persona slid back into place with the ease of a well-fitted jacket. He stood, buttoning his suit coat, his posture straightening into the public-facing version of himself: approachable, professional, charming without being threatening.
“Thank you for your time.” The words were generic, directed at the ceiling as much as at you. The manager pushed open the door, already typing on a phone, already mentally moving on to the next obligation.
You stood rigidly by the table, clutching your questionnaire to your chest like a shield. Your bow was precise. Formal. Measured.
You survived. You maintained professional boundaries. He’s leaving.
The manager was already halfway to the elevator, calling out something about a backup dancer who needed an extra fitting. Seungcheol followed at a leisurely pace, his shoes silent on the carpet.
He passed your side of the table.
You didn’t anticipate the pause. You didn’t anticipate the way he slowed, his stride breaking for half a beat, his body angling toward you as naturally as if he’d been drawn by gravity.
His mouth found your ear.
The brush of his lips against the shell of it lasted less than a second—so quick that by the time your brain registered the contact, he’d already pulled back. The whisper that came with it was low, rasping, so intimate that it felt like a secret pressed into your skin.
“Fix your collar, Director.”
Your breath stopped.
“You missed a button.”
His voice curled around the words. A promise. A threat. An invitation.
“Let’s do more next time.”
He straightened. Smiled at the room like nothing had happened. Raised one hand in a casual wave that wasn’t directed at anyone in particular. The glass doors swung shut behind him, and his silhouette receded down the corridor, and the manager’s voice faded into the distant hum of the elevator bank.
Your portfolio slipped from your nerveless fingers.
It hit the carpet with a soft thud, papers spilling, a pen rolling under the table. You didn’t pick them up. Your hands flew to your throat, fingers scrambling against the silk of your blouse, searching for the missing button—
Every button was fastened.
From the hollow of your throat to the highest point of your sternum, every single one sat precisely in its buttonhole. The collar lay flat. The silk was pristine. Your blouse was perfectly, immaculately intact.
He’d lied.
He’d lied just to make you check.
Your pulse hammered against your fingertips, wild and traitorous, and you could feel it everywhere—at your wrists, at your throat, low in your stomach where a heat had kindled that no amount of intellectual yapping could extinguish. The scent of the leather accord still clung to the air, mixed now with something else, something that smelled like clean soap and warm skin and the ghost of a whisper pressed against your ear.
Author notes: this taken too long for how short it ended up being 🙃🙃, hope you enjoy this because that Isa picture went insane in waterbomb
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“Nyangghhh~, you finger me so fucking good…” Chaeyoung moans happily, it’s impressive how even with your digits impaling her lower entrance that is getting tighter by each pump, your other hand gropes one of her buttcocks, giving it a loving squeeze. And her mouth that speaks sinful words directly to your ear, she still keeps her adorable smile that makes fans around the world adore her.
A lot of people say Isa is made for spotlight, you would probably say she is made to be fucked into the mattress
“I bet you love it when i fuck you like that, right kitten?” you say, a smug smile is on your face, keeping your pace steady.
“Nghh… i am not a cat, asshole”
“You moan like one…” you counter her argument, get another moan from her to show your proof by giving her ass a loud smack. “Especially when it comes from this dick, your favourite toy…” you add, now taking one of her hands to wrap around your now fully hard length, no words needed to be said for her to take the memo as she starts to move her hand up and down your length.
“You don't even know how much i waited to feel that cock, how wet i have been that entire performance” she comments, her entire focus shifts to her hand pleasuring you from base to tip while looking at you with sultry eyes
“I thought cats hate water”.
“I guess being filled with water so much had me wanting to be filled with something else~” she replies while her thumb rubs your tip, getting a bit of your precum for her tongue to taste, humming in approval of your taste. “No idea why this cock isnt already splitting me in half”.
“Bold of you to assume you deserve my cum” you respond, now lifting her off your lap and pushing her into the mattress with you on top of her. “You have been a very bad kitten tonight, haven't you?” You ask her, your hand goes to her bra covered chest, pinching her right nipple through the black cloth as Chaeyoung tries her hardest to hold her moan.
“That outfit you came with, those oh-so innocent smiles you gave to the fans, those thighs you flaunt around like you are asking, begging to get fucked” you continue while your hands vetnure all around her body, highlighting every curve of hers with a firm squeeze.
“I know…I've been such a bad kitten…a really bad kitten that needs to be punished, dont i?~” She giggles below you while her eyes lock directly into yours, hoping that her words and gaze help you get the obvious message she sends
“And the worst of all: those pictures you posted” your right hand now takes your phone and shows to her the latest post on her Instagram, the one she posted one hour ago.
“You don't feel shame, do you?” You ask, not letting her answer as you get the tip of your cock grazing her inner thighs. “showing those panties around like that? I bet so many guys have been stroking themselves during the performance to you, imagining how a slutty pussy like yours need to get fucked”
“Nyaghh…” is the only thing Isa can mutter out of her mouth, looking at you with glitter in her eyes and a tremble in her thighs, its not hard to decipher that she wants this as much as you do.
“But they don't know that you are mine, this tight pussy is made only for this cock” you say, at the same time you finally give her long awaited reward, pushing your dick straight into her pussy.
“Only for me”
“fuck, yes” she hissed, trying to hold a moan, nails scratching on your back while you are pounding her mercilessly. "My tight pussy is all yours daddy" the way she says those sinful words makes your brain rewire all of your logic, but it doesn't matter to you anymore, hesitation is thrown out of the window and lust is overtaking your body.
You need her, immediately.
Her responses are everything and beyond what you wished for, as expected from an idol. From tiny, delightful moans in between thrusts, gasps of surprise after your mouth finds itself on one of her naked nipples, giving it the attention it needs with your tongue, Breathy, Needy pleads for more as your palms smack the skin of her buttcheeks.
It all comes together in a symphony of pleasure that sounds like heaven, but with inspiration straight from the sinful places from the depths of hell. Some may say its an out of body experience with how you don't even notice the shift in the positions now with her ass being the receiving end of your dick while you are behind her.
“I'm getting close” you manage to say in between grunts while you grab her hips with all your might, fearing this wild cat would run away at the first chance she has, but no way a cat would ever be alone without its catnip.
“Just cum in my ass daddy! I need it so ba- AHhhh” Her attempts to muffle herself are no more, she knows what she wants and the fear of the outside world hearing her pleas is no more in her thoughts, her mind is filled with your cock, splitting her in half.
Luckily for her (and you), its not hard to let loose after hearing that nickname she gives you as cum quickly begins to burst in a row of strings that make her scram in pleasure, painting her entire lower area from the Plump cheeks of her ass to the inside of her thighs, some of it even gets inside her pussy.
Each pump into her ass gets you groaning louder each string of cum you release gets you drained more and more, as if she is a succubus, leeching your life force through your white liquid (maybe she is a succubus in fact and her cat like behaviour is to not be suspicious, Eh logic be damned, let your cock do the thinking for now).
Eventually, she finally manages to drain you fully as the last drop of cum gets her falling face down into the bed, exhausted from your pumps, breathing heavily. Meanwhile you somehow have enough strength to not fall with her, giving you a clear view of your artwork: white liquid covered all over her ass with some of it getting on her lower back and waist, its sinful for the eyes but still oh so pretty to look at.
Without thinking much, you take two fingers, swiping them on her ass to grab some of your leftovers to drip on your fingers. “Here” you say in a tired but satisfied voice, taking your two fingers in front of her mouth and without any words needed she inches forward, taking the two fingers into her mouth, letting her taste the hard work you did to her.
summary : Kim Juwon once a forgotten face in a failed girl group, overshadowed and discarded. Desperate to reclaim her dreams, she turns to Choi Seungcheol, a notorious producer known for crafting successful stars within the industry
pairing : producer! choi seungcheol x idol! fem oc! kim juwon
genre : idol au, mature, non idol seungcheol, inspired from "The Idol"
tags : aged up cheol (maybe he's aroud mid 30s?), age gap, producer jihoon cameo, profanities, alchohol consumption, virgin shame? SMUT (mdni), idols mistreatment? just me dissing the industry if you squint enough lol also probably a wrong misconception of how industry actually works but idc
smut tags : porn with lot of plot, sexual tension, fem masturbation, heavy makeout, body worship (if you squint), oral (m receiving), multiple rounds, praise kink, overstimulation, corruption kink, manhandling, multiple orgasm, orgasm control, dacryphilia, and more.
playlist : taemin - guilty, yunjin (lesserafim) - i≠doll, seventeen - bad influence, the weeknd - one of the girls (ft jennie, lily-rose depp), demi lovato - met him last night (ft. ariana grande), chelsea collins - 07 britney, christina perri - human, raye, 070 shake - escapism, ella mai - hearts on deck, ariana grande - everytime, taylor swift - down bad
a/n : finally i managed to publish it! Honestly i have no exact plan when to release it. Just releasing the teaser randomly but seeing some people already seated for it, i decided to publish it on his bday haha (and im still two days late *sigh* happy belated bday cheol ily). This might have sequel but don't pour too much hope, it might take a longer time since i still working on other several fics >.< thank you!
TEASER | CHARACTER | AO3
She stood under the blinding stage lights, the synthetic heat pressing down on her skin. She smiled on cue, her body moving in perfect sync with the other members of her group. The song booming from the speakers, echoing through the air. The roar of the crowd was deafening, but it wasn't for her.
Juwon, meant "center of attention." It's a poetic promise bestowed by her parents in hope that she will receive an overwhelming love from everyone around her growing up.
But life had a cruel sense of irony. Despite the glittering lights and screaming fans, Juwon had always been a shadow, a blurred face in the backdrop of a stage where only one star truly shined.
That star was Hera.
Shin Hera stood front and center now, basking in the audience's adoration. Her voice soared above the backing track, her presence was magnetic. Cameras zoomed in on her smile, capturing every dazzling second through the big screens on each side of the big stage. Even their choreography was designed to frame Hera, as though the group existed solely to showcase her brilliance.
Months after debuting, Juwon finally noticed the truth about their career. That the group wasn't a team. It was a platform for Hera. The rest of them were placeholders, interchangeable at best, invisible at worst.
The fan chant was deafening, but she barely heard other names being mention.
Just Hera, Hera and Hera. All the cheering banners, the cardboards. She barely sees a pictures of herself in the sea of the crowds.
As the music faded and the final pose struck, she forced herself to kept her smile plastered on, even the truth is her heart aching beneath it. The stage lights dimmed, and the group walked off the stage through the thunderous applause and cheerings from the audience below.
Hera was immediately whisked away to fulfill the demands to record dance challenges with other idols backstage, while the other 3 members were being sat down in the makeup room doing nothing.
Juwon can't help but find it truly disheartening. If only one member shine, what's the point of being in a girl group in the first place?
'Might as well as just end it here,' she thought.
Juwon never expected her passing thoughts to jinx reality so quickly.
Just a few weeks later, she and the other members of Lovena sat in the small, stuffy conference room at HOLO Entertainment—their company—to discuss over the possible future activities with the group.
"We've decided to terminate your contract."
The words hit like a slap.
Juwon's eyes widened in disbelief, mirroring the stunned expressions of the other members. All except Hera, who remained still at her seat. Almost as if... she knew.
"Did we do something wrong?" Minseo, their leader finally broke the silence. Her voice trembled slightly despite her efforts to stay composed.
Across the table, the CEO remained calm, his expression blank as ever. Not a sight of regrets or remorse written on his face.
"Unfortunately," he said, folding his hands neatly on the table, "we've received multiple complaints from shareholders. Sales aren't meeting targets. Your group is no longer a profitable asset under the company."
The room fell into a suffocating silence.
Juwon stared blankly at the polished surface of the table. Her fingers curled into her lap, her perfectly manicured nails pressing into the skin. All of a sudden, it felt utterly so difficult to breath right now.
"What about Hera?" Eventually, she managed a whisper, her eyes shot towards the said person sitting across her in the room. She however seems calm, almost unbothered with the news. As if the news didn't effect her at all.
The CEO let out a long, deliberate sigh, looking like he knew such question will come through eventually.
"Don't worry about Hera. After careful discussion, we've decided she will stay on as a solo artist. The agency believes she has the potential to perform well on her own."
"What?!" Hweji, the group's main rapper, nearly jumped from her seat. Her voice cracked in disbelief. "You're seriously keeping her and tossing the rest of us away like trash?!"
"It's not personal. This is business. Hera is the only one generating consistent interest. We can't afford to support a group that's not bringing in returns." He nonchalantly replied.
Hweji opened her mouth to retort, rage burning in her eyes, but Minseo reached over and gently grabbed her wrist. A silent plea for her not to go overboard.
Reluctantly, Hweji sank back into her chair with a bitter scoff.
Minseo turned to the CEO, desperation flickering in her gaze. "Isn't there any room for negotiation? At least let us talk this through..."
The man shook his head, firm and final. "The decision has been made. The board and our investors have already signed off. Our budget and resources will now go entirely to Hera's solo debut. I'm sorry,"
Even his apology sounds cold and insincere, like he do not wish to prolong the conversation any further.
Juwon bit down on her trembling lip, her vision blurring as she stared down at her clenched hands.
So this is how it ends...
The dream, one she had nurtured since she was a teenager is now gone in a blink of eye. Everything she had built from the ground were now crashed like a crumbling sands.
And the worst part of it? She couldn't do a damn thing to stop it.
A week later, the disbandment news finally unveiled to the public.
"What will happen to Hera now?"
"I hope Hera can continue singing. I love her,"
Hera, Hera and Hera. There is barely questions about the other members as if the other three are invisible.
Minseo tried to comfort Hweji and Juwon over it through their shared groupchat (one Hweji purposely created without Hera in it) Although they know even she was sad by such news but tried not to show it.
Hweji was constantly spamming the groupchat, clearly furious over the news.
Hweji: This is ridiculous that they will just let Hera continue while disbanding us. The fact that she's the favorite and always the center of attention. Can't they see how hard the rest of us work all this years for the group?!
Minseo :The company makes decision based on profit, and it's hard to deny that right now, Hera is the one selling and bringing more attention to the group.
Hweji: That's the point! It's unfair that all the spotlight is on her while we work our asses off. Just look at the amount of screen time she's getting in EVERY DAMN MVs.
Juwon scrolled past their conversations, reading in silence in her dark room. Hweji was furious as always while Minseo would be the one trying to calm her down.
Hweji : Seriously though! She don't have anything significant other than her face card. You did the leading, I did the dance and the rapping, Juwon did the singing. But people only focus on her bcs she fit the beauty standard. It's disheartening you know?!
Minseo: I know what you mean, Hweji. But the entertainment industry is cutthroat. It's not always fair, but the company has to make decisions that bring in money. Hera's popularity is just another factor they consider. Though, I agree, it's tough to be overlooked.
Hweji : What you gonna do after this? Are you quitting? I still want to dance though. I hope that one dance studio still want to take me in. Who knows I might end up in the third season of Street Woman Fighter lol
Minseo : Haha! I hope i can witness that. Me... I might want to try acting. Maybe rolling into an acting school first..?
Hweji : Nice one! I wish you all the best, unnie~!
Hweji : hey maknae! You're awfully quiet. What's your plan after this!
Juwon stared at her phone and considered what to replied. She was lost. Utterly lost. Juwon didn't know what she wanted.
Because she has always wants to do one thing...
Juwon : i want to continue being an idol so maybe redebut..?
The atmosphere in the group chat seemed to still for a moment. Hweji responded bluntly.
Hweji : My, my. You still have faith in this suckass industry?
Juwon : I... know. But there is nothing else i love more than singing on stage....
Minseo : I understand how you feel. But, just in case. Maybe try to venture into some other jobs that'll bring you joy instead? As a backup plan?
Juwon didnt reply. In fact, she was more disappointed. Denial with reality. She end up locking the screen and turn to face the wall
The group chat now was filled with silence, the unspoken truth hanging in the virtual air. They knew the challenges that Juwon was about to encounter, and it saddened them. The industry she loved was a cruel place that valued youth and image. Juwon's dream seemed like a distant, fading star.
Days later, Juwon returned to the company building for the last time to clear out her locker.
She walked past the practice room when something pulled at her. An instinct, maybe muscle memory. Through the small glass window, she saw a group of young and fresh trainees dancing in sync, their limbs hitting every beat sharply while their sweat-streaked faces tense with focus. Her feet slowed, before they stopped entirely.
She stood there, silent.
For a moment, she let herself remember of those long nights, the sweat-drenched clothes, the feel of sore muscles, the bark of their old trainer's voice cutting through the music. She could even hear the beats of the old songs that she once practiced so many times before. The same echo of effort now bounced off these walls, only with different names and different dreams.
She watched for another quiet minute before pulling herself away. Her heart tugged, but her body moved forward, one foot in front of the other, as she made her way to the locker room.
Her eyes scanned the inside of the metal cubby, and a wave of melancholy rolled over her. One by one, she picking up her things and stuffing them into the totebag she brought along. The act almost felt like a piece of her heart being peeled away. Her movement slow, as if the act of leaving would somehow delay the fact that she already had no place here.
Her fingers lingered at one of the polaroid stuck at the wall of the locker. The pictures of her and the other girls as trainees before. In the pictures, everyone looks exhausted but they still manage to smile brightly, as they all carrying the same dreams together.
But among the four members, only one get to live through it.
Later, she heard footsteps followed by a greet from her sides.
"Oh, it's you, maknae~"
Her body stiffened.
Juwon made a slow turn to see Hera approaching her with a smile, one that seemed too easy for this moment. Juwon forced a polite one in return.
"Hello. I'm just here to pack my stuff," she said, bowing slightly.
"I know. Minseo and Hweji has dropped by earlier," She replied, sighing as she rolled her eyes. "Seems that Hweji still hold grudges against me,"
Juwon didn't reply. She continued folding an old group hoodie and tucked it away neatly, as if focusing on the fabric could help her ignore the weight in her chest. Hera stepped closer towards her.
"Maknae. Are you, too, mad at me?"
Juwon paused for a moment, her hand gripping on one of her shirts. She closed the locker and looked at Hera with a tired expression.
"I'm not mad..." She started, her voice soft but a hint of resignation. "Just... disappointed."
Hera's smile faltered. "You know you can't put all the blame on me. It wasn't even my fault. The company offered me to make me a solo. I agreed because I saw it as a chance to build my career. I didn't know that it also mean that they will disband us,"
Juwon knew that deep down, what Hera said was the truth. The company made the decision, not her. But it was hard to look past the unfairness, the way the spotlight always seemed to gravitate towards her, leaving the rest in the shadows.
"I know," She replied, her voice barely above a whisper. She knew. Logically, she understood. But knowing didn't erase the hurt. It didn't undo years of subtle favoritism Hera has been receiving all this year.
Hera reached out and took her hand. "I really wish the best for you, Juwon. All of you. Just because the group ended doesn't mean we should, you know... drift apart."
Juwon nodded, albeit a bit reluctantly. The contact between their hands felt... conflicting. Warmth laced with a sting. Part comfort, part farewell.
Deep down, she yearned for genuine understanding, but that seemed to elude her.
"Thanks..." She muttered, her heart heavy as she withdrew her hands from Hera's grip.
After finished packing her things up, Juwon walking down the hallways with doors to several practice rooms lined up on the wall.
She stopped in front of one. Their old practice room.
The one they used to spend countless hours in, one that witnessing them arguing over formations, laughing until their stomachs hurt, falling asleep on the floor after 12-hour practices.
She peeked in through the small window at the door and found that Hera was inside. She's currently surrounded by new team of backup dancers, seemingly to practice for her solo debut.
Juwon stood in the doorway, watching as Hera effortlessly performed the routines that they used to practice together. Her body moved with a grace that had always been there, the dances now perfected under the spotlight of her solo career. It was a stark reminder that Hera was made for this, was made to shine..
..while the rest of them weren't.
Her chest tightened at the thought, feeling her vision starts to get b
"Juwon..?"
Juwon flinched. Her fingers quickly wiped for any remnant of tears from the corner of her eyes before she turned her head to the side.
"Oh, it's you..." She muttered. It was Jihoon, the producer guy responsible to produce all of their music for their group.
Jihoon looked at the filled totebag in her hand, before switching his gaze inside the practice room, immediately catching what's going on. He sighed heavily.
"Wanna have coffee at my studio before you go?"
The question caught her off guard. But the thought of standing there any longer, watching Hera twirl in a spotlight that used to be shared, made her stomach twist. Juwon chose to nod.
"Sure... That'd be nice,"
The studio was a spacious room that hold thousands of behind stories of music making. Cords trailing across the floor, shelves filled with sound equipment, there's even a guitar leaning against the wall.
Jihoon gestured to the couch. "Take a seat. I'll make us some coffee."
Juwon sat down quietly, her eyes drifting around the room. It had been a long time since she'd been in here without the rest of the group. She's been here several times before so the surrounding and even the smell has become familiar to her.
"How are you holding up?" Jihoon asked as he busied himself by the counter, his back facing to her.
"Great... I guess."
He glanced over his shoulder, unsurprised. Jihoon knew that was the standard reply people gave when they were far from great. He handed her the cup of coffee he had filled to the brim before sitting down on his own leather chair.
She took it wordlessly, her gaze fixed on the brown liquid as if trying to read the future in its surface. Jihoon observed her for a moment, his expression softened.
"You don't have to pretend you're fine," He said calmly. "It's not fair, you know. What's happening to you and the others."
Her head lowered even more, some of the strands of hair falling forward, partially veiling her grim expression.
"I never thought it would end this fast. I just wished I could stay a little bit longer..."
"You're a talented singer. I know that. Everyone knows that. You deserve to shine. It's just..." he paused to lean forward slightly, choosing his words with care.
"The industry is not always kind. You knew this too. Sometimes, it's about the right timing, the right connections, the right look. It's not solely about your skills or your talent." He added. "Hera has all those things that you lack. She's marketable, she has the visuals, she has the charisma. The company sees her as a money-maker, they want to ride on her success,"
Juwon's fingers tightened slightly around her cup. Then, without a word, she downed the coffee in one swift gulp. The warmth did little to soothe the sting burning in her chest.
How she wished they were replaced with alcohol instead.
Jihoon once again sighed. "You really want to continue being an idol?"
His question felt like a bullet straight to the heart. She took a moment before replying, her voice barely a whisper.
"If I was given the chance, yeah..."
Jihoon leaned back in his chair, rubbing the curve of his chin thoughtfully. He admired her determination, but he also knew the weight of the industry's indifference. Reinventing herself wouldn't be easy.
"If you want to redebut, you're going to need a helper who can completely rebrand you. Not just a new sound, but a whole new identity," he said carefully. "Someone who can push you past what people remember about Lovena."
Juwon's breath hitched, hope flickering in her eyes. "You knew someone?"
Jihoon hesitated. "I don't know if I should recommend him to be honest...."
Juwon frowned, her hope quickly transforming into confusion. "What do you mean? Is he not reputable or something?"
Jihoon laughed, although it sound dry. "Oh he definitely full of reputation. Both the good and the bad,"
She didn't understand what he meant by that, but her curiosity was definitely piqued.
"What do you mean?" She pressed,clearly not following him.
Jihoon paused momentarily. "I don't know if you are familiar with this name but.... have you ever heard of Choi Seungcheol?"
Juwon's eyes widened at the name, recognition flashing through them. "The famous producer? The one who wrote for big artists? Wait—you know him?!"
Jihoon nodded, "Yeah, and personally. He's an old friend."
Juwon paused. "You knew someone like him..."
Someone with influence like Seungcheol, one with the experience in crafting big stars. If she can reach him..
"Seungcheol is.... well, he's... notorious. A bit of a red flag, if you asked me."
A heavy silence settled between them. Jihoon could see the gears turning in Juwon's mind. He wanted to warn her, to make her reconsider, but the fire in her eyes was unmistakable.
"Look, if you want to see him, I can help making an arrangement for a meeting," Jihoon said. "But don't hope too much,"
"Yes, please," Juwon answered almost too quickly. Jihoon gave her a long stares, trying to find any doubt or hesitation but there's none. He huffed.
"Alright," He finalized.
Juwon's lips curled into a determined smile yet Jihoon couldn't shake the unease creeping into his chest.
He just hoped she knew what she was getting herself into.
The club was lavish but exclusive, a place where smoke curled in lazy spirals and the scent of leather and liquor hung in the air. Velvet booths lined the walls, each shrouded in shadows that protected secrets and conversations. Music thumped low and hypnotic, blending seamlessly with the ambient chatter.
Juwon sat beside Jihoon at a reserved booth, her back straight despite the nerves gnawing at her insides. Across from them, Seungcheol lounged with the careless confidence of someone who owned the world, or at least acted like he did.
He wore a simple black shirt, sleeves rolled up, revealing strong forearms. His dark eyes gleamed under the low lights, equal parts sharp and dangerous.
He swirled the whiskey in his glass, barely glancing at them. "You know I don't do that shit anymore," he said flatly. Jihoon leaned back against the booth's seatings, his expression still cool and composed.
"This is a special case, Cheol. Juwon is..." he trailed off, letting the statement hung in the air for a bit. "...well, she's talented,"
Seungcheol scoffed. "Oh of course, she is. Yet still got herself washed up by her fellow member. Shin Hera, is it?"
His eyes flicked towards her along with a taunting smirk she found pretty vexing. Juwon clenched her fists under the table, her lips pressing into a tight line as she felt her chest burn from humiliation at his words.
Jihoon sighed, leaning forward. "We're not asking for much. Just hear her out."
Seungcheol's lips still curled into a smirk as he sipped into the glasses. "Mhm. Sure she's got a sob story prepared for the night,"
"It's not a sob story," Juwon finally spoke up, her voice surprisingly steady after being stung with that comment.
That made him pause. He turned toward her fully for the first time, the flicker of genuine interest finally breaking through his taunt-soaked gaze.
"Oh yeah?" he murmured, lifting a brow. "Then what is it?"
She took a deep breath, refusing to be intimidated. "I'm a singer. A good one. I... I just lost my chance to show it," she replied, her words hanging heavily in the air.
Seungcheol laughed, a short, biting sound. "Oh, that. A very typical tale. Talent wasted. Dreams shattered, mistreatment from the industry, blahh.. blahh.."
He dropped the glass back on the table with a thud at the same time flashing her a grin with a purpose to ridicule her entire existense.
"Why should I waste my time helping you? I'm not a charity center, you know?" Seungcheol's tone was blunt, bordering on cruel. Yet there was a strange glimmer in his eyes now, an intrigued glint that contrasted with his words.
"I'm not asking for charity," she said, her voice steady. "I just... need another chance to relive my dream,"
Seungcheol let out a dry laugh. "The industry's cruel, baby. You got chewed up and spit out once already. What makes you think you'll survive a second round?"
He didn't stop there. "Girls half your age are blowing up on TikTok, and you think the world's gonna tune in for some washed-up idol with a 'hidden potential' arc?"
Juwon felt her jaw clenching under his gaze, the condescending nickname making her blood boil. But she forced herself to remain calm, staring back at him with frown etched deeply on her features.
Jihoon noticed the intense stare down between Seungcheol and Juwon, the tension between them was almost palpable. He knew things were about to get heated, and intervene before things turned ugly.
"Cheol, come on man. Just give her a chance," he tried to mediate.
Seungcheol shook his head, chuckling. "Nah, I'm done with that hustle," Seungcheol said. He lifted his glass, bringing them to his lips.
"No offense, but babysitting failed idols isn't my idea of fun."
Juwon bristled. Jihoon groaned. "Dude!"
Seungcheol cut him off with a loud thud of his now empty glass. "Nature's calling. I need to go,"
He stood up without sparing them another glance, shoving his hands into his pockets as he walked off. Juwon stared after him, pulse hammering, her pride in tatters. A sense of disappointment mixed with irritation washed over her.
"Damn it," Jihoon cursed.
Juwon watched as he disappeared into the crowd. Her jaws clenching. Her pride wounded. Just then, she stand up on her feet, following his steps to leave the booth. Jihoon eyes widened. "Where you going?"
Juwon turned back, her face resolute. "I'm not done with him,"
Jihoon opened his mouth, but said nothing as she moved through the crowd, cutting through the haze of bodies and noise, following Seungcheol's path into the back of the nightclub
The pounding bass of the club faded as Juwon weaved her way through the dimly lit hallway, her heels clicking against the polished concrete floor. Her heart raced, each beat louder than the music she'd just left behind.
Eventually, she spotted him near the back exit, leaning against the wall with a cigarette dangling between his fingers. His head was tilted back, eyes half-lidded as if the world bored him.
He exhaled a cloud of smoke, his lips curling when he noticed her approaching from the other side. "Persistent, aren't you?" he drawled.
She didn't waver. Instead, her steps became more resolute, her shoulders squared.
"I didn't come here to be ignored," she said.
Seungcheol flicked ash onto the floor, unimpressed. "I already gave you my answer, sweetheart. You don't have what it takes."
Juwon bristled at the nickname, her eyes sparking with defiance.
"How would you know that?" she retorted, her voice rising. "You haven't even seen me perform or sing."
Seungcheol took another drag of his cigarette, the end burning brighter before he exhaled. His gaze slid over her, seemingly assessing her.
"You're all the same," he said, a hint of boredom in his tone. "Young, talented, and naive. You think you deserve some hand-holding because once upon a time, someone told you you're special."
"Why you think that I am not special enough?"
Seungcheol chuckled, a dry, scoffing sound. "Because there's thousands just like you. Those who keep telling me that they worth my time. You're just another face in a sea of faces."
Juwon recoiled as if his words were physical blows. She refused to believe she was just another face, another person to be discarded easily.
"Then, how can I prove it to you? That I am worth it. That I can be special according to *your* standard,"
Seungcheol exhaled a slow stream of smoke, the ember at the tip of his cigarette glowing brighter before dimming. His gaze never wavered, but it narrowed slightly, studying her.
"I don't know. Surprise me," he murmured, tilting his head with lazy amusement.
She didn't answer.
Instead, she stepped forward. One foot, then another, the distance between them shrinking until she was just inches away—close enough to smell the cigarette smoke clinging to his skin, to feel the faint heat radiating from his body.
Without breaking eye contact, Juwon lifted her hand.
And with a calmness that surprised even herself, she reached out and plucked the cigarette from his fingers. His eyebrows lifted in surprise, one corner of his mouth twitching upward. Clearly telling that he wasn't expecting that.
Juwon's hand trembled, barely noticeable, but her face remained composed. Her heartbeat was pounding in her ears as she brought the cigarette to her lips.
The tobacco was still warm where his lips had touched it.
She inhaled.
The burn hit immediately—coarse and acidic as it tore down her throat. Her eyes stung. Her lungs revolted. She coughed once, then again, the smoke catching in her chest like a blade. She turned her head slightly, trying to mask it, but there was no saving her composure.
He couldn't help but let out a laugh at her failed attempt, the coughing fit momentarily breaking her confident facade.
But it still intrigued him to see that she was *at least* trying
"You got guts," he commented, grinning widely. "A rarity,"
Juwon wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, the rawness in her throat still lingering. Her eyes burned, her pride even more so yet she stubbornly held her ground.
"I've got more than guts," she rasped. "I've got something to prove."
He hummed, nodding his head. Seungcheol leaned back against the cold brick wall, folding his arms across his chest. The smirk never quite left his lips, but the sharpness in his eyes dulled into something else.
He was considering. He started to show interest and for her, it was more than enough.
Then finally, he spoke.
"...Alright then."
Juwon's heart skipped.
"Bring that attitude to my studio tomorrow," he said, voice cool but edged with challenge. "Eight in the morning."
The flicker of shock in her eyes was almost imperceptible but it was there. Still, she recovered quickly by responding to him with a nod.
"I'll be there."
He pushed off the wall, brushing past her as he slipped his hands back into his pockets. There was something like approval in the way his gaze lingered for a beat before he turned away, disappearing into the shadows of the hallway with that same air of effortless arrogance.
Juwon remained rooted in place.
Her throat still burned. Her hands still shook faintly.
But beneath it all, there's a spark of hope for her.
His studio was dimly lit, bathed in a soft amber glow that gave everything in the room a sepia toned lighting. Seungcheol lounged in his chair behind the massive soundboard, one arm draped casually over the backrest. His demeanor was more relaxed than at the club, but that intimidating aura still radiating off him.
Juwon sat few meters away from him on the studio couch, both her knees pressed together. Her palms rested on her thighs, but they were clammy with nerves. The remnants of her boldness from last night had worn thin under the weight of unfamiliarity of the situation.
Seungcheol tilted his head toward the speakers. "Got a demo I've been sitting on for... God knows how long. I still haven't found anyone to own it yet," he said lazily, tapping a few keys.
Then a track began to play. They were slow, sensual, and layered with provocative beats. It was a far cry from the bubblegum pop Juwon had once performed with Lovena. The bass thrummed deep, almost hypnotic, and the melody echoes through the room.
She sat stiffly, brows drawn, unsure if she should even be here listening to it. Her instinct was to categorize it as a song meant for someone else—someone edgier, bolder.
Someone's not her.
"I want to try singing it," she said quietly, before she could second-guess herself.
Seungcheol leaned back in his chair, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he glanced over her.
"You sure?" There was something in the way he said it. It doesn't sound like he's mocking her but rather, it edged with challenge. As if he was poking at her to see if she would flinch. She didn't. Instead, she bravely met his gaze.
"I'm sure," Juwon replied. There was a glint in her eyes, a determination to prove herself capable of taking on something so different from her usual image. And it's enough to get him intrigued more than anything.
He held her stare for a moment longer, then nodded, pushing himself to his feet.
"Alright. Then prove it."
An hour later, she was in the booth, her voice pressed against lyrics she'd never imagined herself singing. The kind that dripped with suggestion and pulsed with desire.
The lyrics is far from the family friendly genres she has always sang. It was bolder, explicitly sexual. Something she has never tried before the whole years she had debuted as an idol.
Yet Juwon still tried her best to meet the energy. She let her voice drop lower, added a rasp she wasn't used to, rolled syllables on her tongue. She closed her eyes, imagined she was someone who could sing about seduction without difficulty.
But pretending is more harder than she thought it could be.
They all sat down together in the room, re-listening to the complete demo of the song. She looked up to meet Seungcheol who remained stoned-faced, his arms folding across his chest.
When the track ended, she could hear her heart pounding. Her eyes flicked upward to where he seated, waiting for his comment.
"W-Well?" she cautiously asked. Seungcheol leaned back slowly, a huff escaping from his lips.
"No," He said simply.
Her heart sank, "What?"
"I said, no." He repeated. "I told you no once could do it,"
"Wh-What's wrong. I tried my best,"
Seungcheol shook his head, bringing up his fingers to rubbed against his temple. "Just trying your best is not enough if you're lack of everything I needed. You still sound... nice,"
She blinked, caught in confusion. "Isn't that a good thing?"
Seungcheol rolled his eyes. "Nice doesn't get anyone wet, sweetheart. You read the lyrics yourself, didn't you?"
Juwon flushed at his words, a mix of indignation and embarrassment coursing through her veins. She opened her mouth to protest, only for him to cut her off.
"That's your problem." He said. "You still sound like that innocent girl from Lovena. The one who wore pastel, glittery dresses and sang about first loves and holding hands in the rain. I don't want those,"
Juwon swallowed hard, trying to maintain a facade of composure even as his intense gaze made her stomach churn.
"Do you know what people fantasize about?"
Her throat tightened, before she slowly shakes her head.
"Sex. Sensuality. Power. Boldness." Each word was like a drop of gasoline on an already smoldering fire. "You want to sell a track like this? You need to own the room. Not simply just hoping that they will like it. You need to make them feel like they belong to you the second you walk on that stage,"
He let the silence hang for a beat before continuing, his tone were colder than ice.
"But you?" His eyes dropped briefly, as if assessing her from head to toe. "You've spent your whole career being packaged like a goddamn flower arrangement. That's what killed your career, Juwon.."
Juwon let out a shaky breath, his words slicing through her, each one sharper than the last. There was no malice in his voice but somehow, it felt like he had found her vulnerabilities and was poking at them like needles being pushed against a raw nerve.
She wanted to protest, to deny. But the truth is too obvious at this moment. The cute and innocent image she had carried for so long, the one that had defined her career, was now holding her back from escaping the shell.
Juwon shut her eyes tightly, her hand curling into a fist on her side. "Then, help me to get out of it," She demanded, her voice tight with desperation.
Seungcheol tilted his head, the tip of his tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek like he was weighing the offer.
"I can help," he said after a pause. "But it's not going to be easy. It's going to take a lot of work to strip away all of..." —his hand moved in the air, hovering just inches from her body— "...this."
"I don't care." she said, her voice firmer now. "Break me down. I was a trainee for four years. If I can survive that as a teen, I think I can survive this too as someone with more experiences,"
Seungcheol's arms folded against his chest, tilting his head with a grin, the gleam in his eyes telling her he's now more interested than before.
"Now, we're talking,"
The sleek, minimalist styled office was all chrome and glass, overlooking the city skyline. The faint hum of traffic filled the background as Juwon sat rigidly on a leather seat beside Seungcheol, her hands tightly clasped in her lap, her heart pounding in her chest.
Across from them, Lee Hyeon, CEO of VION Entertainment, lounged in his high-backed chair like a man with nothing to prove. He studied them with mild interest, a glass of scotch swirling in his hand.
"So, this is your big pitch?"He tilted his head toward Juwon. "Her?"
He gave her a quick once-over, then turned to Seungcheol. "Wasn't she in Hera's girl group? What were they called... Lovena?"
Juwon's jaw tensed, but she didn't speak. Her name still trailing behind Hera's like an afterthought never got easier.
Seungcheol nodded, a smirk on his lips. "Yeah. She's the main vocal and she can sing. I can vouch for that,"
Hyeon gave a low, dry laugh. "Cheol, anyone can sing these days. Hell, they've got AI singing for them in their place," He said. "We talked about how well it can sell,"
"Touché," Seungcheol said, casually leaning back in his chair, one arm draped along the backrest.
Hyeon's eyes flicked to Juwon, then narrowed slightly at Seungcheol. "I don't know what you're playing at, Cheol, but this isn't your scene anymore. Why bother?"
Seungcheol leaned back lazily, his arm draped over the back of the chair. "No reason. I just thought that we need more genuine talent in the industry, right?" He said, his eyes turning to his side to where she was seated.
She caught his sight but quickly lowered her head, finding his gaze a bit too overwhelming.
Hyeon rolled his eyes. "You're proposing me a risk, Seungcheol. Do you see how the industry today? They are young! She's what? 28?"
Juwon's stomach twisted. The words hit harder than she expected, but she kept her posture tight and steady, staring staight towards the door pass his shoulder as if his words doesn't affect her.
"Fans want fresh faces. The publics eats up the innocence and youth concept. It's always been like that," The CEO said with a dismissive flick of his wrist.
"And maybe that's exactly the problem lies."
Hyeon cocked an eyebrow.
Seungcheol nodded toward the television in the corner of the room, where a girl group was mid-performance. They are youthful, half of them probably barely reaching their ripe age, singing and dancing to a happy, colorful song about summer and their little high school crushes."
"The whole system's become fast fashion," he said. "Pretty faces that can appeal the audience matters more than their ability to hold a note. Dress them up, slap on a bubbly track with a 90s or Y2K concept then move on to the next batch. They barely had identity. Everything felt more manufactured now"
Hyeon gave a small shrug. "It's still selling."
"For now," Seungcheol argued. "But the market's bloated. Audiences are subconsciously starving for something different. Something bolder. And guess what? Sexy and mature concepts are creeping in. They are back on demand after being spoon-fed with the same concepts over and over again,"
He gestured lazily toward Juwon without even looking at her. "She's not a girl anymore. She's a woman. And that's exactly why she works. She can sing what those kids can't. She can sell a concept that they're not even allowed to touch."
Hyeon leaned back against his seat, his hand rubbing the curve of his chin. "I still need more convincing. People still sees her as the former groupmate of Hera. You are not known enough,"
Seungcheol smiled. "No need to worry about that part. I will make her known. The branding she will bring will make people turn their head twice,"
Hyeon's gaze shifted towards her. "How about you? It might attract backlashes. People will compare you with the idols half your age. Conservative might not enjoying your choice of concept debut. Will you able to handle it? You know the netizen won't be nice once they speak,"
Juwon's spine straightened in her seat.
"I've been in this industry long enough to know exactly how cruel it can be," she said, her voice steady despite the pounding in her chest. "I'm tired of being the shadow."
A pause. Her voice softened, almost fragile.
"This time, I want the spotlight only for me. I want the stage all for myself,"
For a moment, Hyeon didn't say anything. His eyes lingered on her, one that no longer hold the skepticism towards her. He then turned to Seungcheol.
"So what's your role in this little circus?"
Seungcheol's grin returned, slow and sharp. "I'm the ringleader, obviously,"
He leaned forward, voice thick with confidence. "I'll produce the whole thing—music, visuals, storyline. I'm building her from the ground up. You can trust me on this,"
Hyeon's expression darkened, the creases between his brows deepening. "And if she tank?"
Seungcheol's reply was instant. "Then that's on me." He said so causally. "But I won't let her. Not under my watch."
There was a pause—long enough for Juwon to hear the faint ticking of the clock behind Hyeon's desk.
Then Hyeon let out a low, dry laugh. He shook his head, muttering under his breath. "Crazy motherfucker..."
He picked up his glass, drained what was left, and set it down with a soft thud.
"But you know what? Fuck it. You've got my attention."
Juwon stiffened. Her breath caught as he turned toward her with a more serious gaze now, more calculating.
"Alright. Let's test this theory of yours." he said finally. "We'll draw up the contract. You show me something I haven't seen before in the next six months. You hear me?"
Seungcheol's grin spread wider. "Loud and clear,"
Juwon turned to look at him, her eyes wide with disbelief, chest rising with shallow breath.
That was it? Just like that?
But Seungcheol's respond is him shooting her a wicked, knowing smile.
Kim Juwon sipped her Americano, her fingers absentmindedly tracing the rim of the cup before she threw her gaze outside the cafe. The streets were busy with people going around back and forth, spending their weekend on their own way.
"Can you believe it?" Hweji who was sitting across her huffed, breaking the peaceful silence between them. "Hera just debuted solo and didn't even bother to contact anyone from the group. Not even a damn text."
Minseo sighed. "She's probably too busy."
"Too busy to remember us? Her own group members?" Hweji scoffed. "Please. She was always out for herself."
Juwon shifted uncomfortably. Hera's solo debut had been the talk of the industry for weeks. Everyone has been complimented it, her songs has started to get rolled out through every radio speakers just few hours after her debut. Her face has started to appeared on LED Billboard all over the Seoul city, celebrating her new rise.
It stung, even if Juwon didn't want to admit it. They had all started together, shared dreams and heartbreaks, but Hera's rise had cast an unshakable shadow over the rest of them.
"Maybe she didn't want to rub it in," Minseo offered, ever the peacemaker between them.
"Rub it in? Hah! She doesn't need to try. The media's doing it for her." Hweji folded her arms, her tone clearly bitter. "You know what really grinds my gears? Hera gets a label, a whole team, and a media circus while we all here scrambling of what to do with our future,"
Minseo glanced at Juwon. "Well, Juwon redebuting too, right? The article was published yesterday."
At the mention, Hweji's demeanor softened, her posture slightly relaxing.
"Yeah, I saw it. Congrats on that," she said.
Juwon smiled faintly. "Thanks. But there wasn't much reaction to the announcement so..."
"Still, it's a start." Minseo said.
"However, there is something that bugged me," Hweji placed her cup down on the table with a soft thud before she leaned forward, pressing both her palm together.
"Choi Seungcheol? How did you know him?"
Juwon blinked, caught off guard. "Uh, yeah. Jihoon introduced me to him."
"Jihoon? Our producer?" Hweji questioned again. "Okay, of course he would know him,"
"What's wrong? Is there anything I need to know?" Juwon asked back, cocking her brows at them. The girls sighed as they exchanged glances towards each other.
"Not really. It's just that... we had heard from several trainess that he's pretty hard to please," Minseo said.
Juwon let their words sink in. A few memories surfaced, remembering Seungcheol's sharp gaze across the studio glass, the way he had picked apart her vocal take with a single, devastating line.
"Yeah, I can see that," She said, acknowledging her. "But, I know what I'm getting into. If anything, Seungcheol is pretty much helpful towards me through this journey. He is intense but he's also the connection I lacked when I'm still in Lovena,"
"Not only that!" Hweji interrupted. "Remember Astrid Lee? Her career got burned down and it involved him too,"
"Hweji, stop. We didn't know if the allegation is true or not," Minseo hissed. "Also, you will only scared her,"
"True or not, she deserves to know," Hweji argued. "Astrid was once a big star and what happened to her now? All ruined while he remained untouched,"
Juwon quickly interrupted, "Guys, I appreciate the concern but please. I will be alright,"
Minseo and Hweji's gaze softened slightly as they stared at their youngest member. Minseo's hand reaching across the table to gently squeeze Juwon's. "We're not trying to discourage you. We just want you to go in with both eyes open. But, no matter what happens, you've got us."
A small, genuine smile formed on Juwon's lips. "Thanks. That means a lot."
Hweji let out a long breath before reaching across the table, placing her hand gently on top of theirs.
"We're with you," she said softly. "But I still can't trust him!"
Juwon responded with a giggle.
The air inside Seungcheol's private studio was oppressive—thick with tension. The acoustic panels on the walls soaked up every ounce of ambient noise, giving the space an eerie, vacuum-like stillness between takes.
In the center of it all, Juwon stood alone in the glass-paneled recording booth. The mic hovered in front of her, her headphones clamped tightly over her ears, pressing the weight of the last few hours into her skull.
She was on her fifth take of the bridge part of an R&B genre song and no matter how hard she tried, it wasn't landing.
One time, her voice cracked. She winced, already bracing herself. "I'm sorry, let me try again,"
But the track cut off abruptly.
"Stop." His voice crackled through the intercom.
Juwon exhaled sharply and ripped off her headphones. Sweat beaded along her hairline, her throat raw from the last few takes. Her fingers trembled as she lowered the mic, heartbeat thudding painfully in her chest.
She glanced toward the control room. Through the glass, Seungcheol sat on his leather chair, his thick arms were folded tightly across his chest with his jaws tightening in a clear frustration.
Her stomach twisted.
"What's wrong?" she cautiosly asked.
He leaned back in his chair, the faint creak of leather audible through the booth's speaker. "Everything's wrong. What the hell was that?"
"I—" she stammered, her breath ragged. "I thought I was getting closer—"
"No." He retorted, his tone were cold. "You're far from it. Again!"
She nodded instinctively, swallowing the lump in her throat as her trembling arms reached for the headphones again.
She forced herself to push harder, imagining herself to live in between the lyrics, indulging it.
But due to the overwhelming feeling from his hard stares across the room, all of the efforts came crashing down. The notes wobbled. The words felt performative. Her delivery lacked of heat.
Then the track halted again with a violent slam of the stop button.
"You sound horrible!" His voice exploded through the speaker, his patience wearing thin.
Juwon flinched. "I'm trying—"
"Trying implies that you're progressing. But you're not. You're staying still. Or worse, getting worse." He snapped.
Each word hit like a gut punch, stripping away layers of her resolve. "Do you even know what this song is about?" he asked, turning toward the mic with a raised brow.
She blinked, flustered. "It's... about love..? Desire?"
He scoffed. "No. It's about sex, Juwon. Read the lyrics and you will know. It's filthy. It's supposed to drip with want. And you? You sing this songs like you were scared of your own body."
She recoiled, shame crawling over her skin.
"You ever even been in love?"
Her throat tightened. "...Yes."
"Had sex?"
The bluntness hit like a slap. "I don't think it's important for you to know that—"
"It is when you're singing a song about it but you sound like you never had one." His voice cut through her defenses like a blade.
He sat again, fingers flying across the console, cueing up the track one more time.
"One more," he muttered.
Juwon inhaled deeply as the beat kicked in, the melody filling the booth. This time, she pushed harder, forcing herself to forget Seungcheol's piercing stare and the sting of his last words. Her voice trembled at first, but she bit down on her fear, willing it to sound fuller, richer, more daring.
But halfway through the chorus, Seungcheol slammed his hand on the control panel.
"Stop!" His voice blared through the speakers, cutting her off mid-note. "God, that's enough."
The track screeched to a halt. Juwon's heart thudded in her chest as she yanked off the headphones, her pulse pounding with humiliation.
Seungcheol stood from his chair, eyes blazing as he stalked to the booth door and threw it open. His presence filled the room, sharp and suffocating.
"Get out," he snapped.
Juwon's eyes widened. "What?"
"Out." he growled. "This isn't working."
"No, please—" she took a step forward, desperation clinging to every word. "I just need—"
"No. You need a fucking reality check." He ran a hand through his hair, sighing loudly.
"There is no lust, no heat, absolutely nothing!" His voice rose, sharp, scathing. "This track isn't about longing. It's about fucking. And you sound like you've never touched anyone, or been touched."
Juwon's chest heaved, her fists clenched so tight her nails bit into her palms.
Seungcheol's next words were cruel and deliberate, cutting straight to the core.
"Do yourself a favor. Go out and fuck someone. Anyone. Because until you stop sounding like a goddamn virgin, you'll never make it."
The words echoed in the room like the aftershock of a slammed door.
Juwon's lips parted, but nothing came out. Her heart was pounding. Her hands were trembling.
Shame, rage, disbelief... everything mixing up together until it became impossible to tell them apart.
The room went deadly silent, the echo of his words hanging in the air like a slap. Juwon's breath caught in her throat as humiliation flooding through her veins.
The words replayed in her mind like a tormenting loop.
"Until you stop sounding like a goddamn virgin, you'll never make it."
Juwon clenched her fists as she stood in front of her bathroom mirror, her damp hair clinging to her flushed skin. The sting of Seungcheol's voice refused to fade, burrowing under her skin like a splinter. She hated how those crude, merciless words had struck something deep inside her.
He was wrong, of course.
She wasn't some inexperienced girl. But it had been a while—a long while—since she'd been with anyone. Her last relationship had ended in a broken promises and resentment. The aftermath left her too drained to seek comfort in anyone else.
But now... now she was desperate.
Juwon bit her lip, frustration gnawing at her insides. Her body was tense, unsettled by the lingering weight of Seungcheol's accusation. She needed to prove him wrong. Not just to him, but to herself as well.
With shaky hands, she turned off the bathroom lights and sank onto her bed. The room was almost dark with only moonlight filtering through the curtains.
She hesitated at first, fingers ghosting over her skin as heat blossomed in her chest. Her breaths were shallow, the ache of humiliation mixing with a flicker of need.
If this was what it took to tap into that sensuality Seungcheol demanded, she'd do it.
The soft touch of her own hands against her skin sent a shiver up her spine. It was almost like a stranger's touch, both familiar yet foreign. Her fingers traced the contour of her collarbone, the hollow of her throat, each contact igniting sensations she'd forgotten.
She closed her eyes, imagining herself in a room with a man she didn't know, a man who would look at her like he could devour her whole. The image was clear in her mind, every detail sharp and real.
Her hands continued their journey, slipping beneath the hem of her shirt. The cool air brushed against her bare stomach, goosebumps rising in its wake. She ached for a touch more intimate than her own, for hands that weren't hers roaming over her skin, leaving trails of heat in their wake.
Her touch was tentative at first, unsure. She tried to focus, tried to imagine something, or rather someone, to ignite the spark she needed. But the more she tried, the more her mind rebelled. Flashes of Seungcheol's sharp gaze invaded her thoughts, his voice cutting through her fragile attempts at pleasure.
"You sound like you've never touched anyone, or been touched."
The heat that had been building in her core was now dampened by the harsh reality of Seungcheol's words. Her movements slowed, her thoughts consumed by his callous critiques.
She had failed, again.
A bitter curse escaped her lips as she yanked her hand away, her body tense with frustration.
It wasn't working. Nothing was working.
Her skin prickled with shame, heat rising to her face as if she'd failed some unspoken test. The harder she tried to let go, the more her thoughts spiraled, locking her in a cage of embarrassment and self-doubt.
She rolled onto her side, burying her face into the coolness of the pillow. A strangled sound escaped her, caught somewhere between anger and despair.
Juwon sat up abruptly, breathless and agitated. Her chest heaved as she ran a hand through her hair, the weight of inadequacy suffocating her.
Maybe Seungcheol was right. Maybe she'd forgotten how to let loose and embrace desire.
Her eyes flickered to the clock on her nightstand.
Midnight.
The city was still alive, buzzing with life of people who still seeking enjoyment.
Without thinking, she pushed herself to her feet and brought herself to the wardrobe, pushing the clothes hanging inside one by one, looking for a pair of outfit for the night outings.
If she couldn't find it within herself, she'd find it elsewhere.
Juwon's footsteps echoed through the dimly lit streets, each step propelling her further from her inhibitions. The cool air nipped at her cheeks, a sharp contrast to the heat that was coiling in her core.
She didn't have a destination in mind. She was simply searching for a place, a distraction, anything that could drown out Seungcheol's scathing voice in her head.
That's how she ended up in a night club somewhere in Gangnam,
The club was dark and suffocating, neon lights popping everywhere across writhing bodies on the dance floor. The bass pounded in her ears as Juwon made her way through the crowd, her gaze darting across unfamiliar faces. Sweat and alcohol mingled in the air, overwhelming every senses.
She downed a shot at the bar, the burn of liquor barely registering against the turmoil in her chest. Her fingers trembled as she scanned the room, searching for anyone who could help her drown out Seungcheol's voice in her head.
A man approached her, his smile too wide, clearly full of intentions. His breath reeked of beer, and his hand lingered on her waist a second too long. Juwon's skin crawled, but she forced herself to smile.
"You here alone?" he asked, leaning in closer.
"Maybe," she replied, her voice strained as she pretending to be coy.
He grinned. "Wanna dance?"
She hesitated, then nodded. She let him guiding her to the dance floor, letting herself getting touched by this total strangers, pretending to enjoy herself just from being there.
But as his hands roamed lower, seemingly like he was targetting for her buttocks, she stiffened. The smell of stale cologne and sweat was suffocating, and his touch felt invasive rather than enticing. Her stomach churned.
"Actually, I need to get back to my friends," she lied, stepping away.
"Come on, don't be like that," he protested, but she was already pushing through the crowd, heart racing.
Another man approached her near the bar. His gaze raked over her body with undisguised intent, making her skin crawl.
"You looking for someone?" he asked smoothly.
But she let the question hang, ignoring him completely. Everywhere she turned, there was someone ready to devour her, but none of it felt right. None of it eased the ache inside her.
Juwon stumbled out of the club, the cool night air hitting her like a slap. Her breaths came in ragged gasps as she leaned against the brick wall, streaks of sweat beginning to running down her temple after all that attempt to escape there.
This was a mistake. All of it.
"Damnit," She cursed, tilting her head against the wall with frustration.
Later, she ended up in the company's vocal room.
Juwon sat hunched on the worn piano bench, elbows braced against her knees, strands of hair clinging to the sides of her flushed face. Sweat slicked the small of her back, soaking through her shirt, and her throat burned raw from hours of relentless practice.
Her voice was hoarse, strained, and utterly devoid of the sensuality Seungcheol demanded. No matter how many nights she spent in this room, pushing herself until exhaustion wrapped around her bones, she couldn't escape the suffocating weight of his words.
She gritted her teeth, hating how his voice clung to her thoughts, seeping into every corner of her mind. Once, she'd been proud of her voice—confident even. But now, doubt crept in like a shadow, gnawing at her self-assurance. She hated it. Hated how he had torn her down and yet somehow became the voice she craved approval from.
She turned the volume up, attempting to go again.
The door creaked open behind her, and Juwon's body tensed. She turned, breath catching in her throat when she saw Seungcheol standing there, his eyebrows arched as he found her in there.
He had stayed back to finish a track in his studio when he heard familiar beats echoing from this room. He hadn't expected to find her here at one in the morning.
"What are you doing here? It's late,"
Juwon turned back, almost dismissing his presence. "Practicing," She replied, uninterested to give him more attention.
"At this hour?" he remarked, eyebrow raised. He leaned against the doorframe, arms folded across his chest. His gaze lingered on her, taking in her exhausted frame, "You look like a wreck."
"Good to know. Just show how much I worked hard for it," She said, clearing her throat. When she tried to sing, her voice cracked.
Seems that she has reached the limit.
Seungcheol frowned, a hint of annoyance in his eyes. He took a few steps, walking closer to her, "You know overworking won't help you. Once your voice is gone, it's gone."
"I don't need your critique right now."
His lips curved into a scoff, his patience wearing thin. "You're not getting anywhere if you keep singing like that," he said bluntly. "Rest is important. As a singer, you should know that voice is your important asset. I don't want to deal with crack and raw voice on our next session,"
She ignored him. "And I'm trying my best not to sound like a pathetic virgin in your recording booth next time,"
His eyes narrowed as she threw his words back at him. A smirk tugged at the edges of his lips. "Oh? You're still thinking about that, huh?"
He took another step closer that caused her stiffened as he approached, her breath catching in her throat when he stopped just behind her.
Her grip tightened on the lyric sheet, but it nearly slipped when he spun her chair toward him in one sharp movement, his hand gripping the armrest until they were nearly nose to nose. The suddenness pulled a gasp from her lips.
"I'm talking to you," he said, voice lower now.
Juwon groaned. "What the hell do you want me to do then?! Even when I tried my best, you keep on tearing me down with your words and it really frustrating!"
He didn't answer right away. Instead, he leaned back slightly, letting his gaze travel over her face, pausing on her parted lips before meeting her eyes again. The silence made her stomach twist.
"Let me hear you again," he said, finally pulling away from her.
She blinked. "What?"
"You heard me. Show me what you've practice so far,"
She hesitated, but his gaze didn't waver. She sang—barely two lines in—before he cut in, low and sharp, "Stop there. Now, here's the problem. You sing it word by word, and I guess it's your nature of habit from your idol training. But we are not doing idols now,"
His next words landed like a drop of heat in her stomach. "Sing like you moan the lyrics,"
Her throat tightened. She swore she could hear her heartbeat in her fingertips.
"I—" She swallowed hard. "That's... not exactly how I—"
"Try." His voice left no room for refusal.
She forced herself to look at the lyric sheet again, but her mind was a blank mess. The words blurred. She cleared her throat, trying to start, but it came out stiff, almost mechanical.
He sighed before he reached down and caught the edge of the paper, pulling it from her hands. It fluttered to the desk.
"You're thinking too much."
He spun her around once again, facing her. His arms rested on either side of her chair, caging her in without touching. The proximity was suffocating in a way that made her pulse trip over itself.
"This song is not about hitting notes. It's about making every word feel like it's dripping from your tongue. They were supposed to sound lazy and purposely drawn out. Do you get me?"
She could feel his breath on her cheek each exhale skating over her skin like it was meant to distract her. Maybe it was.
"Close your eyes."
She hesitated.
"Close them," he repeated, softer, but no less commanding.
When she obeyed, the darkness only magnified his presence. She heard him lean closer, felt the subtle shift of the air between them. His voice brushed her ear, low and deliberate.
"Now say the first line... but don't sing it. Speak it. Slowly. Like you're tempting someone to lean in closer."
Her lips parted, but the words caught.
"Go on," he murmured.
She tried. It came out hesitant, most of due to the nerves biting at her senses of having his presence so close to her, her nose could even caught the faint smell of his cologne.
He hummed. "Almost. I'll show you,"
Then his fingers came under her chin, tilting her face up. His thumb brushed the corner of her mouth without even he noticing but she did.
Then he said the line himself, voice a slow melt of syllables, deep and drawn out. It punched the air from her lungs, made her thighs press together instinctively as heat pooled low in her stomach.
Fuck.
"Your turn. Loosen your jaw. Breathe between words, not after."
She swallowed and tried again. This time, her voice was softer, slower, it's almost unfamiliar but honest. Like she meant every word she singing.
Maybe she did meant it.
His lips curved into the faintest smirk. "That's better,"
She blinked at him, throat tight, but he was already straightening, withdrawing his touch like nothing had happened, leaving an aching cold at his missing warmth.
"Practice that. We'll go through it again tomorrow." he said casually, as if her pulse wasn't still racing for him.
Then he left.
The next recording session came too soon for Juwon's liking.
She'd barely slept the night before. Every time she shut her eyes, she was back in that practice room. His voice in her ear. His hand on her cheeks. She kept telling herself it had just been a technique—an unorthodox method to get the right performance—but the way her body still reacted proved otherwise.
When she stepped into the booth and found Seungcheol already there, leaning back in his chair, his gaze flicking over her without lingering, her pulse jumped.
"Warm up?" he asked.
"Yeah," she lied, because her throat already felt tight for entirely different reasons.
"Good. Let's work."
She clenched her jaw, the sharp dismissal cutting deeper than it should have.
The track kicked in, the sensual rhythm pulsing through the booth. Juwon adjusted the headphones over her ears and took a steadying breath.
Two lines in and she still sounds stiffened like she always did. Seungcheol's voice crackled through the intercom. "Stop."
Her breath faltered.
"You're holding back again," he said bluntly. "Loosen up, Juwon."
Heat crept up her neck. She pressed her lips together, nodding in response. "Sorry,"
"Take it from the top," he ordered.
The track restarted, and she forced herself to focus. But no matter how hard she tried, the tension wouldn't leave her body. She couldn't find that raw, sultry edge he demanded.
Her mind raced, searching for something—anything—that could unlock the feeling he wanted. And then, like a traitorous whisper, the memory surfaced.
The night in the vocal room.
Seungcheol's breath against her ear. The heat of his touch. The way his voice had coaxed her into surrender, stripping her down to nothing but instinct.
A shiver coursed through her, and she exhaled shakily into the mic. The microphone caught the subtle shift, and she instinctively leaned into it, her voice gaining a husky edge. She let the sound spill out, low and husky, the words rolling off her tongue instead of being placed neatly in line.
Seungcheol's eyes sharpened behind the glass. He sat up straighter, his hand hovering over the controls as if he wasn't sure whether to stop her or let her keep going.
Juwon kept pushing, riding the wave of heat that pulsed through her veins. Her voice dipped lower, raw and provocative, wrapping around the melody like silk.
When the track finally faded, silence enveloped the room.
Her chest heaved, sweat clinging to her skin. The rush of adrenaline left her trembling.
Seungcheol pressed the intercom button, "That's it."
Her heart skipped a beat. "Really?"
He nodded, his eyes locked at her through the glasses. "Yes. You're finally getting it. Good job,"
The rush of validation hit her like a drug. Her lips parted, a thrill coursing through her veins. It was the first time he'd given her genuine praise, and it was intoxicating.
"You did good," Seungcheol added, his voice softer now as if the compliments is made only for her. "But don't get comfortable. Next time, I want better."
Juwon swallowed hard, nodding her head. "I will. Thanks,"
The praise clung to her like perfume, one that's impossible for her to shake. And it made her crave for more of it.
The preparation for Juwon's debut had become a relentless grind. From dawn till the late hours of the night, her schedule was a brutal cycle of vocal training, choreography drills, and image consultations. It was exhausting, but she was starting to see results. Her voice no longer wavered under Seungcheol's sharp critiques, and there was a growing confidence in the way she carried herself.
She's in the dance studio that afternoon, the mirrored walls reflecting Juwon's relentless effort. Her body glistened with sweat, muscles burning from hours of practice. Girl's Day's "Something" played on repeat, the sultry melody filling the room as Sojin stood off to the side, observing with her usual sharp focus.
"Roll your hips slower," Sojin's voice cut through the music. She stood at the edge of the studio, one hand on her hip, the other gesturing to emphasize her point.
"Don't rush it. Let the movement flow naturally. And keep your eyes up to the audience,"
Juwon adjusted her stance, trying to follow Sojin's guidance. Her feet ached, and frustration simmered beneath her skin, but she couldn't afford to stop.
"Better," Sojin said after a moment, a hint of approval slipping into her tone. "Now keep it."
By the time the final notes faded, Juwon's chest was heaving. She sank to the polished wooden floor, the heat of her body seeping into it, sweat tracing slow lines down her jaw. Her muscles throbbed with every breath she took, screaming for mercy.
"Not bad," Sojin murmured as she crossed the room and switched off the music. "But 'not bad' won't carry you into a re-debut."
Juwon groaned, lying flat on her back. "Can't I just be mediocre for five minutes?"
"Sure," Sojin said dryly, crouching down beside her. "If you want your old career to repeat itself."
Juwon's eyes snapped open. "Low blow."
"Accurate," Sojin countered with a small smirk.
"Why are you as mean as Seungcheol?"
"I'm not mean," Sojin corrected. "I'm realistic. And unlike him, I actually tell you how to fix things instead of throwing insults."
Juwon let out a tired huff. "Fine. Point taken."
Ten minutes passed in a blink of eye. Sojin finally stood, striding to the back of the studio before returning with something in her hands. "Break's over. Put these on."
She handed her a pair of black stilettos. Juwon took them and inspect the shoes. Those were at least 4 inches heels high.
"Shit,"
"I know," Sojin smiled. "But these are helpful to make you looks even alluring on stage. It gives you the confidence you need,"
Juwon stared at the pair of heels in her hand. They have a trainee days where required them to practice in heels but after debut, they have used a safer pair of shoes for performance to prevent risk of injuries on stage so it's been a while since she dance in one.
To use them for dancing after a while will mean her going through hell. Juwon can't help but gulped.
Hours passed until it almost midnight.
The speakers vibrates as the sultry beat of 'Something' played on repeat. Juwon moved across the dance floor, her hips swaying to the rhythm. Her reflection in the mirror was fierce, or at least she tried to make it look that way. Each step was sharp, but her confidence wavered as a sharp pain stabbed through her arches.
The heels Sojin had suggested were exquisite. A black stilettos that made her legs look endless. But after hours of relentless practice, they felt more like instruments of torture.
She gritted her teeth, forcing herself to push through the pain. Her body protested, but she didn't stop until—
Her ankle wobbled from a sudden imbalance. She hissed, her formation crumbling as she tried to hold herself from fall flat on her face at the wooden floor.
"Damn it!"
The sudden click of a door made her whip her head toward the entrance. Seungcheol stood there, his gaze assessing the surrounding of the dimly lit room before it landed on her. His presence immediately filled the room, suffocating and magnetic all at once.
"You really like punishing yourself, don't you?" His voice was smooth, with that edge that always made her toes curl.
Juwon swallowed, trying to straighten up without wincing. "What are you doing here?"
"I was checking in," he said, sauntering toward her, hands casually tucked into the pockets of his tailored coat. "Though it looks like I walked in on your suicide attempt."
She glared at him. "I'm fine."
His eyes flickered to her trembling legs, lingering on the redness where the straps of her heels bit into her skin.
Juwon tried to ignore his presence as she went back to the laptop sitting at the corner to replay the song from the beginning. As she fiddling with the touchpad, a hand suddenly wrapped around her wrist, pulling it away that made her eyes turned wide.
"Hey—what are you—"
"Sit." His voice left no room for argument.
The single word carried enough weight to knock the wind out of her protest. Before she could think, she was guided toward the bench against the wall. Her heart thudded.
"You really need to stop playing martyr," he muttered, crouching in front of her as he reached for her foot. "Are you planning to delay your debut or what?"
She quickly shook her head. "Of course not,"
"Thought so,"
Seungcheol slipped off one of her heels. She tensed as he reached for her ankle, his long fingers brushing against her skin. The contact was electric, sending a shiver down her spine.
She tried to pull her foot away, but his grip was firm. The slow, deliberate press of his thumb against the arch of her foot sent a jolt up her leg. Her thighs clenched involuntarily.
"Seungcheol," she said, her voice shaky.
"Hmm?" He didn't look up, his attention fully on her foot as he massaged away the tension.
"This is... weird."
He finally lifted his gaze, "Weird?"
"Yes," she managed. "You're... touching my foot."
Seungcheol chuckled—a deep, indulgent sound that sent an involuntary goosebump under her skin. Obviously not in a bad way. Far from it. Juwon shifted, trying to ignore the way her skin prickled at the sound.
"It is weird," he mused, his fingers still lazily massaging her ankle. "I've never held someone else's foot before."
She scoffed. "You expect me to believe that?"
"Why would I lie?"
"Because it's you,"
Seungcheol just chuckled at that. "So, you've heard the rumor," he said evenly. "So what? You gonna stop working with me?"
She said nothing at first before she continued. "Is it really just a rumor?"
"Believe what you want," he went on. "It's not my job to convince you what's truth and what's not."
Her stomach knotted when his eyes flicked up towards her, a boyish smile playing at the corner of his lips. She gulped, attempting to pull her foot away from his hold.
"You're awfully full of yourself," she muttered, looking away, pretending to examine the stilletos on her lap.
“Heard that a million times.” He grinned wider, like her jab had only amused him. This time, Juwon couldn’t stop the small curve tugging at her own lips.
The warmth of his fingers lingered against her ankle as he buckled the strap.
“Done,” he straighten up, “I’d advise you to go home for the night and rest. You’ve tortured yourself enough.”
That had never been her plan. She’d intended to stay in the studio until the choreography was perfect, even if it meant dancing herself sore.
But coming from him, it felt like an order, one her body responded to before her mind caught up. “Alright.”
What she thought had shifted between them that night crumbled a few weeks later.
That day, it is her evaluation day. She just finished presenting what she has worked on for the past few months. She felt confident but at the same time, she didn't.
Her fingers resting behind as she scanned the faces before her. Sojin had that measured look, the kind that wasn't exactly critical but wasn't approving either. Hyeon, seated with one leg crossed over the other, tilted his head slightly, considering. And Seungcheol—
He was leaning back in his chair, one elbow on the armrest, fingers brushing against his lips in thought. His gaze was hard to read, but to her, he looks almost bored.
Juwon felt her stomach knot nervously.
Hyeon was the first to break the silence. "I'll be honest, Juwon," he started, his tone as diplomatic as ever. "Technically, your execution is improving. Your voice control has gotten better, and I can tell you're really trying to adjust to the new concept."
Sojin nodded. "He's right. You're starting to tap into the sensuality, but it still feels... restrained. You're moving your body, but I don't feel the intention behind it. Like you're thinking about looking sexy instead of being sexy."
Juwon swallowed, forcing herself to keep her expression neutral.
Then Seungcheol exhaled a sharp, humorless chuckle. "Restrained?" he repeated. "That's an understatement."
Juwon stiffened. His voice was flat, emotionless.
"I don't know what I just watched, but it wasn't sexy. It wasn't even remotely close." He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, his stare unrelenting. "I don't feel anything watching you."
She clenched her jaw, her hand hidden behind her were curled into a fist.
"I don't feel excitement. I don't feel curiosity. I don't even feel anticipation." He tilted his head, eyes narrowing in blatant disappointment. "Hell, I don't even feel desire. And that's a problem, Juwon."
The casual cruelty of it struck like a slap to the face. Juwon felt her breath hitch, humiliation creeping up her throat like bile.
Seungcheol let out a small, amused scoff. "For someone who's supposed to be debuting with a concept that thrives on seduction, you are painfully unsexy."
A part of her wanted to fight back—to say something, anything, to salvage her pride. But no words came.
"Do you even believe in your own performance?" Seungcheol pressed, his voice deceptively casual.
Juwon inhaled sharply. "I-"
He cut her. "Because, let me be honest. I don't. I look at you, and I see a woman trying to act sexy, but all I feel is secondhand embarrassment."
Her throat tightened.
He sighed, sitting back again, looking thoroughly unimpressed. "And you know what makes it worse? I don't even think it's because you lack the ability. I think you just don't have it in you."
The words struck so deep Juwon felt herself sway slightly. She willed herself not to react, not to show how much it got to her, but something inside her cracked.
She had never felt so utterly dismissed. So insulted.
Hyeon and Sojin exchanged brief glances, as if debating whether they should step in, but Seungcheol was already rising to his feet.
"That's it for today," he said, waving a dismissive hand as he turned on his heel. "There's no point in wasting any more time on this."
And with that, he walked out.
Juwon stood there, frozen.
She wasn't even worth his time. That was what he had just told her. And the worst part? A tiny, infuriating, devastated part of her believed him.
Her chest ached as she stared at the door he had disappeared through, his words repeating over and over in her head like a cruel echo.
Juwon slumped onto the floor of the practice room, her body aching from hours of relentless training. Sweat clung to her skin, her chest rising and falling with every exhausted breath. The music had long since stopped, but the echoes of her movements still lingered in the air.
She stared up at the ceiling, trying to ignore the sting in her muscles, the burning frustration in her chest. No matter how much she improved, it never felt enough.
Not for Seungcheol.
His words from the evaluation still echoed in her mind, sharp and merciless.
She clenched her fists, jaw tightening as she recalled the way he had dismissed her, walking out of the room as if she wasn't worth his time. As if her entire existence in this industry was still nothing more than a joke.
The sound of footsteps approaching pulled her from her thoughts. She turned her head just as Sojin sat down beside her, setting a water bottle between them.
"You're pushing yourself hard." Sojin's voice was even, but there was something gentle about it.
Juwon took the bottle and pressed it against her forehead, letting the cold seep into her skin. "I have to."
Sojin studied her for a moment before sighing. "You're still thinking about what he said, aren't you?"
Juwon let out a dry chuckle. "How can I not? He practically ripped me apart in front of everyone."
Sojin leaned back against the mirror, crossing her arms. "That's just how Seungcheol is. He doesn't sugarcoat things. But... that doesn't mean he's always right."
Juwon exhaled through her nose, eyes shut tightly. "He didn't have to take me in. No one else would have. I should be grateful."
Sojin hesitated, her expression shifting. There was something unreadable in her eyes, something careful, as if she was weighing her next words.
"Maybe. But you should also be careful."
Juwon frowned, glancing at her. "Why?"
Sojin didn't answer right away. Instead, she looked at the practice room door, as if making sure they were alone. "How far have you gone with him?"
Juwon's breath hitched. The question was so unexpected, so direct, that she could only blink at Sojin in surprise.
"What?" she managed to say, but the slight shake in her voice betrayed her.
Sojin sighed, rubbing her temple. "You don't have to tell me. But I've been around long enough to know how Seungcheol operates."
Juwon's fingers curled around the bottle in her hands. "You think I'm sleeping with him to get ahead?"
"No," Sojin said immediately. "But I think he's the kind of person who knows exactly how to pull people in. And once he has them where he wants, they don't even realize they're caught until it's too late."
Juwon's throat felt dry. She thought of his hands on her, the way he had spoken to her in the vocal room, the way his praise made her heart race. She thought of how, no matter how much he insulted her, she kept coming back.
"Is that what happened with Astrid Lee?"
For the first time, Sojin's calm cracked. Her gaze shifted, the smallest flicker of unease passing over her face. She looked away, pressing her lips together before letting out a slow breath.
"Astrid... was a mess," she said finally, the name heavy enough to make the air feel thicker.
Juwon stayed silent, knowing if she spoke too soon, Sojin might shut down completely.
"She was talented. One of those people who made you believe she was born for the stage. But when she got involved with Seungcheol..." Sojin trailed off, fingers idly twisting the cap of her water bottle. "Things changed. She changed."
Juwon's brows drew together. "Changed how?"
"It was subtle at first. She worked harder. She became sharper, more confident. But then it started looking less like growth... and more like obsession. Every decision, every move, started revolving around him. What he thought, what he wanted. She'd push herself until she was falling apart, but if he told her to keep going, she did."
A strange chill threaded through Juwon's spine.
Sojin's voice lowered. "I don't know if all the rumors about them were true. Maybe they were lovers, maybe they weren't. But I do know this: the Astrid I first met wasn't the Astrid I saw at the end. The last version of her was paranoid, reckless, ready to burn bridges she'd spent years building. She'd lash out at anyone who questioned her. It was like she couldn't tell where she ended and Seungcheol began."
Juwon's chest felt tighter, her pulse just a little too loud in her ears.
"The whole fiasco... his career nearly went down with hers. I honestly didn't think he'd survive it. But... somehow, here we are. With you,"
Sojin looked back at her, gaze firm now. "I'm not saying he ruined her. Maybe she was always going to fall apart. But I am saying that whatever was between them wasn't healthy. She lost herself in him. Whether he meant for it to happen or not... it did."
Juwon swallowed.
Sojin leaned in slightly, her tone firm. "There's a fine line between being challenged and being controlled. Once you cross it, you might not even notice until there's nothing left of you but what he's shaped."
Juwon didn't know how to respond to that. Because the truth was, she didn't want to keep her distance.
If anything, Sojin's words only made her more curious. More drawn to him. She wanted to know why Seungcheol was the way he was
She wanted to know what would happen if she let herself fall further.
But she didn't say any of that. She simply forced a smile and said, "Thanks for the advice, Sojin. But I should get back to training."
Sojin's lips parted but nothing ever come out so so she ended up nodding and let her off to get back with her practice.
The water pounded against her skin, scalding hot, as if she could burn away the heaviness of Sojin's words. Juwon tilted her head back, letting the spray run over her face, but the warning only grew louder in her mind. She should have been angry. She should have resented the implication that she could ever end up like Astrid.
But instead... she thought about him.
Even after that brutal evaluation, even after he'd walked out without a second glance, she'd pushed herself harder. Every ache in her muscles, every sleepless night—it was all for him. For his validation. For that rare, fleeting moment when his eyes would soften in approval.
Pathetic. She knew that. More than anyone else.
Her breath shuddered as she squeezed a dollop of body shampoo onto her palm, working it over her skin in slow, methodical strokes.
But God, not even these feel enough to wash him off her.
Her mind drifted to that day in the vocal room. His voice close to her ear, breathing the sensual lyrics right into her ear. Low and deliberate, almost a whisper meant for no one else.
The water cascaded over her hair and shoulders, sliding down her chest. Her fingers twitched against her collarbone slowly trailing down to the swell of her breasts. It slowly slid down, letting her nails lightly grazing her skin as the water keep rolled over her.
Then, another memories slipped in towards the night in the practice room when her ankle sore from hours in heels. She remembered it all too well, the image of him crouching in front of her, the warmth of his large hands closing around her foot. His thumbs had pressed into the sensitive arch, toeing the line between comfort and something shamelessly intimate.
Not forgetting the smile he gifted to her. The smile that had her remain sleepless night after night.
Juwon bitten her lips as her hand slid lower, the heat between her legs mixing with the pounding spray of water.
And then, she rewrote the scene. This time, he was here with her. Behind her. The solid heat of his chest against her back, breath warm against her ear.
His hands would cover hers, guiding her lower and lower to where she wanted him the most. His lips would ghost along her jaw, his voice whispering praises of how obedient she is for him that coaxing shiver from her until her knees threatened to buckle.
Her own hand found the ache between her thighs, fingers moving in the rhythm she imagined he'd set for her. The cold tile grounded her even as her mind spun, every nerve strung tight, every sound she made swallowed by the hiss of the water.
She chased it, breath growing ragged, the picture of him behind her so vivid she could almost feel the faint scrape of his teeth against her ear.
"Seungcheol..." His name slipped out from her tongue almost involuntarily.
Every brush of her own fingers felt like a poor imitation, a pale mockery of what she craved. She was desperate, her body trembling under its own touch, reaching for something that was infuriatingly out of her grasp.
Her hips arched, her mind drowning in the fantasy of his weight behind her, the steam curling between their bodies. She moved faster, frustration twisting with pleasure, each touch a desperate attempt to satisfy a hunger only he'd planted in her.
She was drowning in the void of her own touch, lost in fantasies that felt more vivid than reality. His name spilled from her lips again, a prayer and a curse all at once, as she chased the high, clinging to any shred of him her mind could conjure.
The image sharpened in her brain as she fantasize the way his mouth at her neck while telling her not to stop. She knew she wouldn't. Or she just couldn't. The ghost of his touch burned hotter than the water, and she chased it, her pace quickening.
Her moans rose with the sound of the shower, echoing off the tiles. Her thighs trembled violently, her hips rocking into her own hand, chasing that snap in her belly. Her body curling forward as a strangled cry slipped past her lips. Her orgasm pulsed in waves, each contraction dragging another whimper from her throat. She stayed there, hunched under the shower, fingers moving through the aftershocks until she was too sensitive to bear it.
It took her a moment to pull her hand away. When she did, she stared at her fingers, glistening under the hot water, slick smeared along her skin.
Fuck..
Maybe she wasn't just too deep in him.
Maybe she was already drowning.
Seungcheol arrived at his studio, sighing as he reached for the door handle—only to notice something small, barely there, tucked underneath. It happened to be a piece of paper. Frowning, he bent down to pick it up, unfolding it with one flick of his wrist.
Practice Room. 10 PM.
No sender. Just those few words, scrawled in an ink-dark script.
Curious, he glanced at the time. 9:50 PM. Right on cue.
He exhaled slowly, pocketing the note. Locking the studio door behind him, he made his way down the corridor, boots echoing against linoleum. His mind spun with possibilities of the culprit behind the notes, but none prepared him for what waited on the other side as he swung the door open.
A single fluorescent light flickered on, illuminating a lone figure standing near the switch.
Juwon.
She stood there in the glow, wearing a black dress with a dangerously high slit down the middle, the fabric hugging her curves, accentuating every dip, every arch, every tease of bare skin. Her dark hair cascaded over one shoulder, her lips painted a bold red, eyes smoky and hooded, looking like a reincarnation of temptation.
Seungcheol's eyes narrowed. "What the hell is this?"
Juwon didn't respond. Instead, she stepped forward, closer and closer. Seungcheol stepped back, lips parting to question her again but she suddenly pushed him down onto the nearest couch with surprising ease.
He let himself fall, more curious than alarmed. His breath caught slightly, his body tensing beneath his still expression. His gaze scanned hers, laced with both amusement and curiousity.
She stepped back to take a center in the middle of the room before the music started.
A familiar beat of Park Jiyoon's 'Adult Ceremony' vibrating through the room, pulsating in waves. Juwon began to move, opening her performance with a slow slutdrop.
Seungcheol, realizing what this is about, reclined slightly on his back, his fingers tapping against the couch's armrest.
Sojin's work, he realized. This was what she'd been helping Juwon with behind the scenes.
His lips quirked. Interesting.
Every roll of Juwon's hips, every flick of her wrist, every gaze she threw over her shoulder was done with intention. As if she want to prove him something.
To prove him that he's wrong.
To show that she can be the woman that caught his attention and spark his desire when he watch her.
As she danced, her mind rewound to every grueling hour she had spent in the studio with Sojin, the way they had meticulously crafted each movement, every glance, every calculated pause.
The music keep going, and during the break, she strutted toward him, her steps confident, resembling a feline. She let her fingers graze over his shoulders as she perched a foot on one of his thigh, her breath fanning against his jaw as she leaned in.
Seungcheol tilted his head, observing her with quiet amusement. Eyes to eyes, as if he is daring her to do more.
As if she was accepting the challenge, she turn qith a graceful flick of her hair, the smell of her shampoo gracing his nose. She swaying her hips with a teasing roll that made the air between them feel thick with heat.
But then, she felt her heel wobbling.
Juwon gasped when her feet failed to support her that she ended up slipping and fall...
...right into his lap.
Juwon froze for half a second, startled by the unintended move. She tried to get off from him but he quickly placed a hand on her waist, pressing her firmly on his lap.
"Keep going,"
Her breath hitched at his low whisper. His finger stilled at the curve of her hip and it's clear to her when she looked at him. There's an anticipation to see her next move, to see how she would do if she gets into this situation.
Even when her mind screamed for her to reatreat, her body respond differently as she shifted slightly. Her his slowly moving atop of his lap. Her hand moved to looped around his neck, continue to grind against her.
Seungcheol remained unreadable but she could feel the way his hand on her waist slightly tightening, inviting a smirk from her lips.
It works. It finally works.
Everything about this moment makes her felt dizzy, getting her felt even more heated.
The song reached its end in a slow fade, leaving behind nothing but the crackle of silence and the tension that wrapped around them like smoke.
She stayed on his lap, lips parted, unsure if the tremble in her thighs was from adrenaline or something else. Her heart pounded so loud it muffled everything.
"Now what?" She met his gaze head-on. "Am I not appealing enough?"
A slow smirk played on his lips. His fingers brushed against her bare thigh, featherlight, barely there, but enough to make send shiver down her spines.
He reached out, softly brushing her jaw with his knuckles. "Not bad," He purred.
Her stomach clenched, anticipation curling in her veins. And just like that, she felt it again—that invisible string pulling her toward him. The same satisfaction when she received his ackowledgment.
Her body leaned in, her lips parting, her breath ghosting against his mouth. But before she could close the space between them, he pulled back, amusement flickering in his eyes.
"Not yet."
She almost whimpered, the sound catching in her throat.
"For now," he went on, fingers lazily tracing along the inside of her thigh as if he owned the right to touch and deny her in the same breath, "you have a debut to focus on. Prove to me you can rewrite what people say about you. Then—" his mouth curved faintly, cruel in its restraint,
"—maybe, we'll talk."
The rejection landed like a slap, sharp and humiliating.
Her arm looped around his neck tightened, nails biting into the back of his shirt as if she could anchor herself there, as if holding him closer could dull the sting of his words. But all it did was remind her that he could pull her in and push her away whenever he pleased.
Now, the day had arrived.
The debut showcase for Kim Juwon had drawn in some crowds including reporters who had been buzzing about Seungcheol's involvement in her career. It was the intrigue surrounding him that had initially piqued the media's curiosity, but as the lights dimmed and the music started during the opening to her debut showcase, all of that changed.
The heavy bass of Juwon's debut title track, "Bad Woman" vibrated through the venue as the LED screens illuminated with the first glimpse of her silhouette. A hush fell over the audience, tension thick in the air. Then, with the first beat drop, the lights exploded into brilliance, revealing her at the center of the stage.
The revelation earned few intrigued whispers and murmurs from the people who attended.
No more timid girl who had once fumbled in the shadows of her former girl group. Standing before them now was a woman draped in black, a high-slit dress accentuating her long legs, her striking red lips curling into a smirk as she met the eyes of the stunned crowd.
The reporters, initially skeptical, sat upright in their seats. Flashes from cameras began to flicker rapidly, catching every second of her performance. They had expected another typical idol debut, but instead, they were witnessing the rise of something entirely different.
On stage, Juwon commanded the attention of every person in the room. Each step, every shimmy of her hips, conveyed a raw sensuality that had the audience under her spell. The nerves, the fears, and the hesitations before has completely disappeared, replaced by a woman full of alluring energy and confidence.
By the time she ended the performance with an ending fairy pose, thunderous applause and cheers erupted through the venue. She stood at the center, chest rising and falling, a small smirk playing on her lips as she took in the electrified energy.
After the performance, she was ushered into the next session which is the press conference regarding to her debut. The air still thick with lingering shock from what they had just witnessed.
After her brief introductory, reporters began to throw in questions after questions.
"Kim Juwon-ssi, your transformation is incredible. Many remember you from your previous group, yet this version of you is entirely different. What inspired such a drastic change?"
Juwon tilted her head, a small smile playing on her lips. She took a moment to respond, carefully considering her words.
"Inspiration can come from a variety of places," she began, her voice steady and confident. "But I suppose you could say that my main inspiration is a... desire to grow, to challenge myself and break free from the limitations I've set for myself."
Her eyes flicked around the room, meeting the gazes of each reporter in the audience.
She let that settle in for a moment, before she continued. "Back then, I was unsure of who I was supposed to be. Now, I know exactly what kind of artist I want to be, what kind of woman I am. 'Bad Woman' is just my introduction."
The reporters scribbled down every word she spoke, their interest in her peaking as they tried to understand the woman behind the idol.
One reporter raised his hand, "Do you worry about the public's reaction? Some might say this concept is... too provocative for the mainstream market."
Juwon smiled, slow and deliberate, as if she'd been expecting the question.
"I think the public is smarter than people give them credit for," she said. "They know when something is genuine. This isn't a concept I'm putting on like a costume. It's a side of me that's always been there... it's just never given the chance to breathe."
Another reporter, this one younger and bolder, leaned into her mic. "There's been talk online that this sudden reinvention is all thanks to Choi Seungcheol. That he built your new image from the ground up. How much of 'Bad Woman' is truly you, and how much is him?"
She lifted her chin slightly, voice cool but certain. "He gave me the tools, the direction, and the space to become who I am. But I'm the one who chose to walk through the fire. The woman you saw on that stage tonight? That was me. Every note. Every step. Every look." She paused. "He didn't invent her. He just reminded me that I could become her."
There was a beat of silence. Then, another hand shot up—an older woman from another major outlet.
"Do you consider this concept sustainable? Many female idols rebrand themselves but end up returning to safer images. Are you planning to continue with this bold direction?"
Juwon nodded slowly, her expression unreadable for a moment before she answered.
"Being bold isn't a phase. It's a choice. And I've made mine." Her eyes scanned the room again. "I've been into the safety zone for years with my previous group and this time, I want to show everyone of the woman I can be once I'm out of my shell,"
More questions flood in for the next one hour until the moderator stepped in, gently announcing that the Q&A session would be wrapping up soon.
She stood, bowed politely, and stepped off the platform, the heels she wore the entire night clicking like punctuation behind her exit. From the press hall to the green, she was congratulated with several staffs for her debut along the way. Many complimented her for being born anew and each time, she only smiled and thanking them with a bow.
Once she found herself alone in the green room, she let herself relaxed a little, exhaling the nerves she had locked inside all day.
"Well done."
She turned, pulse skipping as Seungcheol came out of nowhere, hands in his pockets of jeans, a half-smile tugging at his lips. His gaze swept over her and she swore it felt like he was peeling back every layer to see what was underneath.
"You handled them better than I expected," he said, stepping close enough for his cologne to cloud her already-overworked senses. "I'm impressed."
The words hit her like a drug—warm, dizzying, curling in her stomach until she felt absurdly light. She had been bracing herself all day for his critique, craving the sharpness of it, and now that he was offering praise, she wanted to drown in it.
Her lips parted, ready to thank him, but he reached out first, brushing an invisible thread from her shoulder, his fingers lingering just a fraction too long. The smallest touch, yet it felt like ownership.
"Keep this up. And you might just make me proud." he murmured, the corner of his mouth twitching as if he knew exactly what it was doing to her.
It was ridiculous—she hated how her chest tightened at that, how every bit of self-control she'd fought for dissolved in the glow of his approval.
"Thank you," she replied, her voice coming out a little breathier than intended. "You'll come to the after party, right?"
Seungcheol pulled back slightly, heaving a long, casual sigh. "Not sure yet. I have more things to do at the studio."
There was a flicker across her face—small, but enough for him to catch. A soft dip in her expression, the subtle fall of her shoulders.
His gaze lingered, and then that knowing smile curved his lips. She was about speak again when he reached out, ruffling her hair with an easy, almost careless pat to the crown of her head.
"You really want me there, huh?" he asked, teasing her. Completely oblivious—or maybe not at all—to how that tiny gesture sent her pulse into overdrive.
She didn't hesitate. "Yes."
"Convince me."
Juwon gulped. "It's... important to me," she admitted, hating how desperate it sounded, but unable to soften it. "Tonight is my debut, Cheol. You've been there since the beginning. It wouldn't feel right without you."
His eyes searched hers for a long moment, then he let out a soft, amused hum. "You're right. I made you. I deserves the credit, right?"
She nodded, almost like a puppy agreeing to their owner. Seungcheol laughed. "Fine. Since it's you, I'll come,"
It was such a simple answer, but the way he said it—like she was special, like she'd managed to win something no one else could— sparked something inside her.
The hall was buzzing with celebration for her debut, noises of clinking glasses and the muted bass of celebratory music playing in the background. Staff, stylists, backup dancers, and media reps filled the room with congratulatory energy, offering Juwon drinks, hugs, and endless praise.
"Juwon, you killed it tonight!"
"You're amazing! I'm looking forward working with you in the future," and everything she never get as a members of Lovena back then.
Juwon offered smile after smile, thanking each one with polite nods and flushed cheeks, but even the champagne didn't quite settle the fire still running through her veins.
"Juwon!"
She turned at the familiar voice and saw Minseo and Hweji, her former groupmates from Lovena. They looked stunning, hair done up, dressed for the occasion. Minseo rushed in for a hug, followed by Hweji.
"You were so good up there," Minseo gushed. "I almost can't believe that we are seeing our maknae up there,"
"We're so proud of you," Hweji added.
Their praise warmed her chest, drawing out a small laugh she hadn't realized she'd been holding back all night.
"Thank you," she said, clutching their hands. "Seriously, it means a lot."
For a while, the three of them sat down together to caught up with each other's update. Hweji has joined a cheoreography crews for a dance studio meanwhile Minseo had actively joining the theatre communities to showcase her acting skills.
"You should come and watch our upcoming musicals! I have some tickets ready for you guys!" Minseo told them. Hweji's eyes lit up in excitement.
"Ooh! I'd love to!" She replied.
But Juwon just offers her a tiny smile, seeming a little hesitant. "I want to watch but I can't promise. You know... schedule.."
Minseo's expression softened a little, laced with understanding. "Sure. I won't force. It's just... it's better if we can come together, you know?"
"I understand. I'll try to ask my company for it," She finally said.
As they basked under the chandelier lighting, sharing stories with each other, something nagged at the back of her mind.
Where is he?
She hadn’t seen Seungcheol since the showcase. She’d caught a fleeting glimpse of him at the back of the hall, champagne in hand, talking with two suited men. His gaze had passed over her without pause, as though she were just another body in the crowd.
And now? He's gone.
"Guys, I’m sorry, but I have to—" She rose before finishing the thought, pushing herself to her feet. Hweji and Minseo's conversation paused to look at her.
"You leaving already?"
"I just... need to see someone. Keep the conversation up. I'll come back later," She didn't wait for their response and she just walk away. All of the sudden, the room felt a little bit too big for her. Everywhere she goes, she met with people and everyone is coming to her to speak but she barely could make out the word they spoke.
"Juwon, can you take a picture with us?" someone interrupted, pulling her toward another camera.
Her feet staggered a little but she still smiled, posed, thanked them.
The crowd pressed in around her as soon as she stepped back into the throng. More compliments. More drinks offered. More cameras flashing in her face. Her smile stayed plastered on, but her mind kept scanning the corners of the room, the buffet table, the lounge seating.
No sign of him.
Something cold began creeping under her skin.
"Excuse me," she murmured to a cluster of VIPs, slipping past them and out into the relative quiet of the hallway.
She scanned the hall, then made a beeline toward the bar where her manager, Chanwoo, was scrolling through his phone, half-drunk on his alcohol.
"Chanwoo," she called sharply, startling him.
"Oh—Juwon-ah! Great job tonight. Everyone's talking about—"
"Where's Seungcheol?"
His brows knit. "What?"
"Cheol. Did he leave?"
"Uh… I think I saw him take the elevator with some girl. I think she's an intern."
Her stomach dropped. "What?"
"Yeah. Probably booked a room with her or something." He grinned, too casual for the ice flooding her veins. "You know how Cheol is."
Juwon inhaled through her nose.
He’d left her debut celebration—for someone else?
The jealousy was a violent burn, it hit he rlike a match to gasoline, burning hot and uncontained.. The thought of him with another woman, smirking against her mouth, that low voice whispering into someone else's ear made her want to throw the champagne glass in her hand against the nearest wall.
Her body moved before she could stop herself, like something primal had taken over.
Her heels pivoted sharply on the carpet, ignoring the sound of Chanwoo’s voice calling her name down the hall.
The elevator doors loomed ahead, a silver mirror reflecting the fury etched on her face. She jabbed at the button, foot tapping as though her heartbeat had moved to her ankle. The doors slid open and she stepped inside, hitting the button for the twenty-second floor — the one her company had rented out for the night’s celebration.
He had to be up there.
She told herself she didn’t know for sure. She told herself she might be wrong. But Chanwoo’s words kept repeating like poison on a loop and every replay made her.
The elevator ride was short, but every second dragged, her pulse roaring in her ears louder than the hum of the machinery. When the soft ding announced her arrival, she barely noticed.
She walked forward, each step heavier than the last, eyes scanning the line of identical doors. She was unsure which room he could be in but then, there she saw it. One door was slightly ajar, the gap narrow, like whoever had gone in hadn’t even bothered to close it properly in their rush.
When she stepped closer, she heard a soft, high-pitched giggles followed by a low voice murmuring something she couldn't make out.
Her stomach twisted. Juwon no longer hesitated as she decided to pushed the door open with a hard shove.
And there it was. The picture her mind had been drawing since she stepped into the elevator, now in perfect, vivid detail.
Seungcheol was on the couch, shirt half unbuttoned revealing the cut of her chests and his legs spread wide. A girl, younger in age, perched on his lap, her manicured fingers tangled in his hair. His mouth was on hers, slow and lazy, like he had all the time in the world.
"Are you fucking kidding me?"
It ripped from her throat before she even realized she’d said it.
Both heads turned at once.
The girl blinked, startled, lipstick smeared unevenly across her mouth. "J-Juwon!"
But Juwon didn’t spare her more than a passing glance. Her gaze was locked on the man beneath her, that infuriatingly calm expression on his face, as though she’d just walked in on him scrolling his phone, not making out with someone.
"Get out," Juwon said, voice sharp enough to cut.
The girl froze. "What?"
"I said out," she repeated, louder, the word cracking with heat. "Now!"
The girl looked at Seungcheol, confused. He didn't say a word. Rather, he just lounged further back into the couch, one arm stretched lazily over the backrest.
"You heard her," he finally drawled, eyes locked on Juwonas if she were some unpredictable performance he didn’t want to interrupt.
Her lips parted in disbelief at how easily he dismissed her. But knowing that neither is siding her, she get off his lap and gather her heels on the way, grumbling something under her breath.
Juwon’s heartbeat roared in her ears as she slowly turned to face him again. He still looked infuriatingly comfortable, sprawled like a king who’d just dismissed a servant, his thumb dragging lazily across his lower lip to smear away the last of her lipstick.
Juwon’s fists tightened at her sides. Her voice trembled despite her best efforts to steady it. "You really couldn’t wait until the party ended?"
Instead of answering, he let out a soft chuckle, like she’d just said something adorably naïve. “You looked good tonight, by the way.”
“Don’t change the topic, Choi Seungcheol!” she snapped, heat flaring up her neck. “You think this is funny?”
“Never said it was.”
“You’re unbelievable. You vanish from my debut party and I find you here with some random—” She cut herself off, jaw locking so hard it ached.
He only leaned back further, knees spreading a little wider, shoulders loose, gaze steady and cool. “Why do you care so much, Juwon?”
The question hit her like a slap. “Why do I—?!” She stumbled over her own fury, breath catching. “Because I—” She froze. The words teetered on her tongue but she couldn’t push them out.
“You what?”
She hated him for asking. Hated him more for the coil of heat winding in her gut despite the rage clawing up her throat.
“You can’t just—” Her voice cracked, chest tight. “You can’t just show up, make me think you’re here for me, and then disappear with someone else like I don’t exist.”
His gaze slid lazily over her, heavy enough to pin her in place. “Sounds like you want me to only be here for you.”
Her lungs stuttered. “Maybe I do,” she bit out before she could stop herself.
He didn't even pretend to apologize.
And maybe that's what pissed her off the most.
The fury, the humiliation, the sick pull of wanting him all tangled together until she couldn’t tell them apart. She was burning alive in it, and he just sat there, watching her burn.
She moved before she thought, crossing the space in two strides. For a moment she only stood over him, her shadow falling across his face. Then she climbed into his lap, her thighs caging his hips, her weight replacing the girl’s like she was claiming her stolen territory.
"You—" her voice came out a breathless tremor, "do you even realize what you’re doing to me?"
He looked at her, head tilting slightly. "Pretty sure I have an idea."
That smugness made something snap. She yanked him in for a frustrated kiss, all the heat and resentment from weeks of his mind games crashing through her.
Juwon kissed him like she wanted to bite the smugness off his lips. Her mouth was hot and unyielding against his, her teeth grazing him before her tongue pushed past in a demand for more. Seungcheol met her aggression with maddening ease, one hand sliding up her spine, the other gripping her thigh to drag her closer until there was no space left between them.
"I hate seeing that intern sitting on your lap like that," she muttered against his lips.
"You’re seriously getting jealous over someone you don’t even know?" His fingers slid up her sides, tracing curves before settling again on her hips. "Didn’t know I had that kind of effect on you."
"Shut up," she growled, dragging him into another kiss—deeper this time, desperate enough to bruise.
Her fingers twisted in his shirt, pulling and tugging as if she could physically anchor herself in him, nails scraping faintly against his chest through the fabric. Every shift of his jaw, every slow stroke of his tongue against hers only made her press harder, like she was trying to smother the memory of that other girl from minutes ago.
He tasted faintly of the champagne he had drank from the party earlier, and she hated how her body reacted to him. When she finally pulled back, her lips were slick with their shared saliva, her chest heaving against his.
"I've made my debut," she whispered against his mouth, her lips ghosting over his as her breath hitched. "I think I deserve my reward, don’t I?"
His eyes darkened, the corner of his mouth curling into a smirk that was pure sin. “Hell yeah, you do,” he murmured, his voice dropping to that deep, gravelly tone that always went straight to her stomach.
She kissed him again before he could say more—messy, open-mouthed, all tongue and need. He groaned into her mouth when she rolled her hips into his, the friction making them both ache. His hand slid down to cup her ass, fingers digging in possessively as if he wanted to keep her exactly where she was.
Her mouth trailed along his jawline, pressing open-mouthed kisses against the sharp edge until she reached his chin. Her tongue traced the line of it, then dipped lower, finding the hollow of his throat.
He tilted his head back with a low groan when she lingered there, teeth grazing lightly before she kissed her way down his neck. Each press of her mouth was unhurried, almost reverent as if she she was memorising him through touch alone. She let her lips wander over his collarbone, her breath hot against his skin, then down to the exposed skin above his shirt’s open buttons.
By the time she dropped to her knees between his legs, his breathing had grown heavier, the anticipation coiling tight. Her hands went to his belt, and the metallic click of the buckle sounded loud in the silent room.
She tugged the leather free with careful slowness, her knuckles brushing along the thick line of him beneath his pants. His jaw clenched, a low exhale slipping past his lips as she unzipped him and pushed fabric aside.
Her fingers closed around him, hot and heavy in her palm, already hard from nothing more than their kisses. He swore under his breath, the sound rough, as her other hand settled on his thigh for balance. She didn’t take her eyes off his face when she leaned in, lips brushing the tip just enough to make him twitch before her tongue flicked across the slit, tasting him for the first time.
"Fuck," he muttered, voice tightening.
She moved slowly at first, just enough to let him feel every hot slide of her tongue, every deliberate swirl while fingers stroking what her mouth couldn't take.
Seungcheol let out a low groan. His head dropped back against the couch, fingers threading into her hair, more out of reflex than control. "You've been holding out on me, huh?"
She sucked harder in response, letting her cheeks hollow until he could feel the heat and pressure wrap tight around him. Her hand worked in sync, twisting languidly near the base with every pull of her mouth. The steady throb against her tongue told her she had him, his hips beginning to twitch upward despite himself.
She quickened the rhythm, bobbing her head in smooth, wet strokes, letting his cock slide between her lips over and over. Spit gathered at the corners of her mouth, dripping down to coat her fingers as she stroked what she couldn’t take.
When her eyes flicked upward, the sight was intoxicating—him, completely undone above her. His head tipped back against the seat, throat stretched out, Adam’s apple shifting with each rough swallow. His lips caught between his teeth as he hissed through them, the sound sharp and desperate.
She let her mouth slide free with an obscene, wet pop, the thick strand of spit connecting her lips to his flushed tip making him curse under his breath. Without breaking eye contact, she dragged her tongue from the very base of him—slow, deliberate—up the thick vein until she reached the head again. She circled it once, tasting the salt of him, before sinking back down, this time deeper, taking him until the stretch hit the back of her throat.
Her gag was muffled around him, but the vibration of it made him groan low and guttural.
“Shit—Juwon…” he ground out, one hand tightening in her hair, urging her just a little deeper, a little longer.
She pulled back with a gasp, her breathing ragged, lips slick and swollen, chin shining from the mess she’d made. “Still thinking about her?” she asked, her voice thick, mocking just enough to sting.
He gave a short, breathless chuckle that quickly dissolved into a groan as she gave him one slow, deliberate stroke. “I don’t even know her name—fuck, I’m gonna—”
But before the tension could snap, before the heat could break over him, Juwon eased back, letting him slip from her mouth. The sudden loss made him curse again, sharper this time, as she sat back on her heels—satisfied at leaving him teetering on the edge.
He was panting above her, chest rising and falling hard, his eyes half-lidded as he stared down at her. Sweat clung to his hairline, his pupils blown wide, and to her, he looked devastatingly beautiful—raw and flushed, like a man barely holding himself together.
Juwon climbed onto his lap again, her knees bracketing his hips. The second her lips met his, he groaned into her mouth, tasting himself on her tongue. His hand slid to her waist, fingers digging in like he needed to anchor himself to her body.
She lifted herself slightly, one hand gripping the slope of his shoulder for balance while the other slipped between them. Without breaking the kiss, she pushed her panties aside, the brush of her knuckles against her own heat making her inhale sharply. She reached down to grip him again, feeling the hard, slick weight of him in her hand.
Guiding him between her thighs, she lined him up and sank down in one unbroken motion, swallowing him to the base. Her mouth fell open in a silent gasp, head tipping back at the way he stretched her, every inch pressing into her until she was seated completely on him. Her tight dress bunched at her waist, hem brushing the tops of his thighs.
Seungcheol’s eyes fluttered shut, his jaw going slack. “Holy fuck…” he breathed, voice low and rough.
Juwon rolled her hips, slow at first, grinding in circles that made the veins in his neck stand out. Her walls clung to him with every drag, heat pooling low in her belly. Planting both hands flat against his chest, she started to rise and drop, the bounce smooth at first before she let the tempo climb.
Seungcheol’s head tipped back, his gaze heavy-lidded but locked on her every movement, watching her come undone on top of him.
“That’s it, sweetheart. Fuck yourself on me. Show me how bad you want it.”
She did.
Juwon’s hands slid up his chest, fingers curling into his shirt as she started bouncing harder, chasing the high his voice coaxed out of her. The burn in her thighs only pushed her further, every slap of skin against skin ringing through the room. Her breathing turned erratic, lips parting around helpless little sounds.
“That’s my girl,” he groaned, his hands gripping her hips and guiding her down harder, deeper. “Look at you—so fucking good for me. Taking me so deep you can barely think, huh?”
She could only nod, eyes glassy, the praise making her clench around him so tight his breath hitched. Her head tipped forward against his shoulder, sweat slicking her skin, every roll of her hips more desperate than the last.
“Say it,” he urged, voice low and rough in her ear. “Say you need it.”
“I—need it,” she gasped, voice trembling, “need you.”
He rewarded her with a sharp thrust upward that made her cry out, her nails digging into his shoulders.
“Oh god—fuck, I’m—”
The orgasm tore through her like a tidal wave, stealing her breath. Her hips faltered, jerking in short, helpless movements as her walls clamped down around him. She shuddered violently, the rush leaving her dizzy and cockdrunk, eyes glassy and mouth slack as she whimpered against his shoulder.
He gripped her hips hard, keeping her flush against him, forcing her to take every throb and twitch of him inside her while she came apart.
She collapsed against his chest, trembling, clenching around him so tight he nearly lost it. He caught her, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other firm on her waist, letting her ride out the aftershocks. Her breath was hot against his neck, dampening his skin, her body still twitching in small, helpless jolts.
Seungcheol huffed a low, satisfied laugh, the sound rumbling against her cheek. When she finally blinked up at him, she caught the tilt of his mouth—that arrogant smirk.
“Greedy little thing,” he murmured, almost mocking.
She barely had time to register the shift in his stance before the world tilted. He rose in one fluid motion, taking her with him, still buried deep, his strength making the feat feel effortless. Her hands clung to his shoulders, a startled gasp breaking from her lips.
“Seungcheol..?”
“You think I’m done?” His voice was a growl now, low and edged with hunger. He gripped her knees, spreading her wide until she could feel the cool air between them. His gaze lingering shamelessly where she glistened for him in the dim light.
“Round one was for you. I let you have your moment.” He said, leaned over her, caging her in with his arms, his mouth brushing her ear as he whispered, “Now it’s my turn.”
With that, he dragged her to the edge of the bed, the sheets bunching beneath her as she scrambled to keep up. Her legs dangled for a moment before he hooked them over his forearms, spreading her shamelessly open. One hand slid between them, his thumb parting her folds as if to admire how wet she still was for him, even after she’d already come.
“Look at you,” he muttered, voice thick with something between awe and filth. “All this for me?”
She gasped when she felt him positioned himself at her entrance again.
And then he slammed into her with no warning.
Juwon cried out, her back arching clean off the mattress as he filled her to the hilt in one brutal, claiming thrust. “F–fuck!”
His hips snapped against hers, fast and merciless, the slap of skin sharp in the quiet room. His grip on her thighs turned bruising, pinning her in place as he drove into her with single-minded purpose. Every thrust was deepand it felt like he was carving himself into her, like he knew exactly how to shatter her and then drag her back from the edge… only to wreck her again.
“You wanna have me that bad?” he rasped, voice dripping with cruel amusement. His hand slid up her body, fingers curling around her throat—not enough to choke, but just enough to tilt her chin and make her eyes flutter like she might drown in him.
His thumb brushed under her jaw, forcing her to meet his gaze as he pounded into her. “Look at you. All fucked out already, but still letting me ruin you,”
Her lips parted as if she wanted to protest, to tell him he was wrong but the words tangled in her throat when he thrust harder, deeper, hitting that spot that made her gasp.
“That’s it,” he murmured, smirking like he’d won something. “I’m making you into my perfect little slut, and you love it.”
She whimpered, her nails clawing at the sheets, the burn in her core winding her tighter. “Seungcheol—"
“Shut up and take it,” he cut in, his tone a low command that sent heat pooling low in her belly.
And god, she did. Her hands gripped his wrists, nails digging in as she let him use her, her mind clouding with heat.
“That’s it,” he purred suddenly, voice dipping low, a cruel sweetness in it. “Good girl… that’s what I like to see.”
The praise shot through her like lightning, her thighs trembling around his hips. “Oh god—” she gasped, her voice breaking.
He pinned her wrists above her head with one hand, the other tugging the neckline of her dress down until the fabric gave way. Her breasts spilled free, bouncing from the sudden release, her chest heaving under his weight.
Seungcheol’s eyes darkened, lingering on the way she flushed under his gaze. He leaned forward, closing his lips around one of the hardened peaks, his tongue flicking slow before he sucked hard enough to make her gasp.
Juwon whimpered, her spine bowing as if to offer him more, his name spilling from her lips like a desperate prayer.
“Mmh, that’s right,” he murmured against her skin, the vibration making her shiver. “Say my name again.”
“Cheol…” Her voice cracked, breathless.
He released her nipple with a wet pop, smirking as he trailed his mouth to the other, giving it the same unrelenting attention. His thrusts didn’t slow. If anything, they only got rougher, timed perfectly with each nip of his teeth.
“You’re so fucking sensitive,” he breathed, dragging his teeth lightly over her skin before sucking again. “So perfect, like you're made just for me,"
Her wrists strained against his grip, her body squirming under him as the heat built dangerously fast.
He pulled her leg over his shoulder and hit deeper, making her eyes roll back. Her second orgasm ripped through her, but he kept going.
"You're gonna come again," he told her.
"I—can't—!"
“Yes, you can,” he cut in, voice low and commanding. “You’re gonna come again, and you’re gonna do it while I’m inside you, milking me like the greedy little thing you are.”
Her head tipped back, a strangled moan breaking free as her walls tightened involuntarily around him.
“That’s it… let me hear it,” he coaxed, thrusting into her harder, deeper, his pace ruthless now. “You belong to me when you’re like this. Say it.”
She was too far gone to resist, her voice a wrecked whisper. “I… I’m yours.”
“Louder.” His teeth grazed her nipple again.
“I’m yours!” she cried, her entire body convulsing as another climax tore through her, leaving her trembling and unable to breathe through the pleasure.
Seungcheol groaned low in satisfaction, feeling her clamp down so hard he nearly lost it himself. “Good girl… My perfect little ruin.”
Her body was still twitching from the last orgasm when Seungcheol released her wrists. She collapsed against the mattress, dazed, her breathing ragged. But before she could recover, he hooked his hands under her thighs and pulled her closer to the edge of the bed again.
“Cheol—” she gasped, voice shaking. “I can’t—”
“You can,” he cut her off sharply, pushing back into her without warning.
She let out a broken cry, the sudden fullness too much, her oversensitive body clenching helplessly around him. “It’s too—ah!”
His smirk was merciless. “Too much?” He thrust harder, watching every shiver ripple through her.
Her nails clawed at the sheets, tears welling in her eyes from the overwhelming pleasure. Every nerve felt raw, overexposed, and yet his relentless pace dragged her higher and higher again.
“Look at you,” he rasped, leaning over her, his hand gripping her jaw to make her meet his gaze. “Fucking ruined and still taking me. You like it. You like that I won’t stop.”
Her lips parted, a strangled whimper escaping as her eyes fluttered shut.
“No,” he growled, giving her a sharp thrust that made her cry out. “Keep your eyes on me.”
She obeyed, barely holding on, tears slipping down her flushed cheeks.
“That’s it, sweetheart..” he said softly, almost mocking. “Let me see you break for me.”
His thumb brushed her lower lip, then slid into her mouth, pressing down on her tongue. She moaned around it, her walls fluttering violently around him.
“Fuck—” she gasped around his thumb, her legs trembling uncontrollably.
He pulled it free, tracing her swollen lips before smearing the wetness over her cheek. “So pretty when you cry for it.”
Even as she writhed beneath him, begging for a moment to breathe, his hips didn’t stop. If anything, he seemed hungrier, chasing his own release while wringing every last drop of hers.
“You’re mine, Juwon,” he growled, each word punctuated by a brutal thrust. “Say it again.”
Through broken sobs and moans, she choked out, “I’m yours—yours—ah, God—”
And he rewarded her with a kiss so deep it stole the last of her breath, swallowing her cries as he kept her pinned and trembling, her body his to use until he decided otherwise.
Seungcheol’s thrusts had lost none of their force. If anything, they grew sharper, faster, chasing his own high while she whimpered beneath him, too spent to do anything but take it.
Her head lolled against the pillows, sweat dampening her hairline. “C-Cheol—please—”
His hand came down to her cheek, turning her face back toward him. “Don’t you dare tap out on me now,” he rasped, his tone a mix of command and dark amusement. “You wanted me. Now you’re gonna take all of me.”
She could only gasp as he pushed her legs back further, folding her nearly in half. The new angle made him hit so deep she swore she couldn’t breathe.
“That’s it,” he murmured darkly, his thumb brushing over her lower lip. “Take every inch. Take it all,”
Her walls fluttered around him again, another climax hitting her so suddenly she didn’t even realize she was coming until her body locked around his. She sobbed his name, tears spilling from the corners of her eyes as her body gave out completely.
Seungcheol’s thrusts slowed, but he didn’t pull out—just held her there, filled and trembling.
“Four times,” he counted softly, almost proud. “And you’re still breathing… think you can give me one more, sweetheart?”
All she could do was nod weakly, and that was all the permission he needed.
Back at the afterparty, Hweji and Minseo drifted through the thinning crowd, their eyes scanning every corner for their missing friend. The air was thick with the faint mix of alcohol and perfume, the music now a dull thump beneath the low murmur of conversations.
“She doesn’t even have her phone, so it’s impossible to track her,” Hweji muttered, clutching both her own and Juwon’s device tightly in her palms.
Minseo, balancing her clutch against her hip, craned her neck toward the bar. “She wouldn’t just leave without saying anything to us,”
Their search took them toward the quieter end of the lounge, where Sojin stood beside a table littered with half-empty glasses and melting ice. Her gaze roamed the room in restless sweeps, as though she too was hunting for someone.
“Sis, have you seen Juwon?” Hweji asked, closing the distance.
Sojin’s brows knitted as she shook her head. “No. I’ve been looking for her too. Last time I saw her, she was with you guys.”
Both women shook their heads. “She left us mid-conversation,” Minseo explained, “Didn’t say where she was going.”
“Should we be worried?” Sojin’s voice dipped, low enough to barely carry over the music.
Before Hweji could answer, a figure passed by, and Sojin’s hand shot out instinctively to grab his arm. “Chanwoo!”
The manager halted mid-step, startled. “Oh, hey, girls!”
“Have you seen Juwon?”
There was the smallest flicker in his expression. “Juwon?”
“Yes,” Hweji pressed. “You’re her manager. If she went somewhere, you’d know. And seeing you still here means she hasn’t left the venue.”
His expression caught somewhere between discomfort and hesitation. “Uh, actually… I just saw her about twenty minutes ago. I think she was heading to Seungcheol’s hotel room.”
The words seemed to hang in the air.
Minseo blinked first, her lips parting as if to speak but nothing came out.
Sojin’s grip on his sleeve slackened, her hand falling heavily to her side.
Hweji’s gaze moved between them, the weight of the implication settling heavily in her chest.
None of them needed to voice what they were thinking—each woman could see it mirrored in the others’ eyes. A shared unease threaded between them, silent and sharp, the kind that only came when you knew exactly where a story was headed… and feared you might be too late to change its ending.
a/n : revised the typos! I'm sorry if i missed anything
(soonyoung doesn't do relationships. or strings. or repeats all that often, honestly. he's one of the best drivers on the circuit and he doesn't need to. the one exception? you, his biggest rival's on-and-off partner. he's always your first call when your relationship is splashed across the headlines again and he never seems to care.)
pairing: driver!soonyoung x f!reader
genre: f1 au | smut, angst
rating: 18+, minors DNI (for the teaser & the fic)
word count: ~1.5k for the teaser (full fic: tbd, probably ~25k)
warnings (teaser): swearing, references to infidelity (reader and OC), hoshi is kind of a manwhore, morally gray relationships, one (1) explicit blowjob (we're starting early and I'd say sorry but I'm not)
additional warnings for the full fic: drinking, eating, lots of smut, toxic relationships, more to be added when it drops
expected posting date: aug. 22nd (fingers crossed)
note: i'm sooooo excited to be taking part in @camandemstudios's F1 collab (check out all the fics here). i wasn't planning to drop a teaser, but here we are. i'm hoping to have the full fic out in a week. thank you to my beloved @100vern for an amazing banner ❤️
if you want to be tagged when the full fic drops, leave a comment or join my seventeen taglist here.
Kwon Soonyoung doesn’t do relationships.
Not now, at least. And why should he settle? He’s one of the best drivers on the grid. Always competing for the pole. Always in the conversation to end up on the podium for any given race. A five-time Driver’s Champion. People flock to him. Always wanting a piece. Always wanting to get just that little bit closer. It’s like they’re hoping some of his success will rub off on them. Or some of his fame. Always ready to give him exactly what he wants without him ever having to ask. The world is at his fingertips and he knows it. Knows that he can have anything he wants and doesn’t want to settle for anything less than that.
It’s been this way for most of his career. Always too much attention since he was 18 and making his debut. Too many ways for him to get into trouble. He had tried, briefly, to dip his toes into actual, committed relationships. But, they’re more trouble than what he’s doing now, he thinks. It’s too hard for people to understand the schedule and there isn’t really enough time in the off season to commit to building something. Besides, he’s been one of the names on everyone’s lips since his first season. The one thing people seem to like even more than watching him race is speculating who he’s spending time with off the track. It’s just easier. Let them talk. Let the people in and out of his bed think what they want, too.
Unfortunately, Kwon Soonyoung is also exceptionally talented at making everyone feel special.
It seems unimaginable that, with a reputation like his, anyone could possibly fall for the lines that drip like honey from his lips. Slow and deliberate. Coating the skin of the nameless, faceless cycle of people that come into his life. The kind of things that should come out sounding sleazy and still seem to work for him. Maybe they do sound sleazy. He’s never really stopped to think about it. Doesn’t really care enough about figuring it out, either. As long as they keep working and he never gets bored. If there’s one thing he truly can’t stand, it’s that: boredom.
Soonyoung looks down at another nameless woman, disinterested. Well, he knows that she gave him a name. It’s just that he could not be bothered to remember it. She’s sloppily bobbing on his dick. Treating him like she’s the lucky one. Like he’s doing her a favor by letting her blow him. And it’s honestly fine. Not the best, not the worst either. She had not seemed this desperate when he picked her up an hour ago at the bar. Now, it rolls off her in a way that’s entirely unappealing to Soonyoung. Makes it harder to appreciate it.
She makes to pick her head up, like maybe she can hear his internal monologue and he only puts his hand on the back of her head. Gently but forcefully pushing her mouth back onto his waiting dick. It’s almost boring how quickly she complies. The least she could do is to make it a little more of a challenge. Could at least pretend she’s not falling all over herself to give him whatever he wants.
Boring.
When his phone buzzes, he considers checking it right away. But, he’s close. So close. The release is the only thing that’s really making this whole experience worth it. When it buzzes again, your motions falter and he groans.
“Don’t worry about it,” he huffs out and it seems to be enough to get you to keep going.
And maybe he should have shown her this level of interest from the beginning because her movements get more sure. More confident. Like somehow him dismissing whatever it is on his phone gives her the validation that she’s looking for. Ridiculous, really. He’s still going to check. He just wants to get off first. The nameless woman hollows her cheeks and sucks harder, letting him hit the back of her throat. Soonyoung’s whole body tenses and his fingers dig into the edge of the couch where he’s sitting. She pulls her mouth off him and gives him a single smirk, like she’s so proud. Then she begins stroking him hard and leans down to suck his balls into her mouth. It’s finally too much for him. He comes all over her hand, groaning at the feeling, stars bursting through the much needed release. The woman keeps stroking, more gently now as his body jerks. He throws his head back and sighs. Twitching slightly in her hand.
Seemingly more confident, she gets up and smiles at him like she’s done something impressive. Like she’s the only one who could have him coming like that. Like she’s not just the latest in a line of people to be in this exact position. The blowjob had been good, sure, but nothing special as far as Soonyoung’s concerned. He’s not going to say that, though. Not because he hasn’t before. More because she’s already walking off to the hotel bathroom and he’s curious about who wants so desperately to interrupt his peace.
There are only a few people who can cut through the specific settings he has on his phone when he’s hooking up anyway. It’s not a Do Not Disturb, exactly. More like he doesn’t want the usual string of never-ending notifications to disrupt the whole. Especially like tonight when he feels like he needs release or he’s going to die. And no, that’s not dramatic.
Woozi: still with that woman you picked up?
Woozi: think you should see this…
Woozi: [link]
His chief engineer, Lee Jihoon, begrudgingly accepts the nickname Woozi, gifted by Soonyoung for Soonyoung’s use only. It comes in helpful, sometimes, too because it’s not automatically obvious to most people who he’s hearing from. Jihoon is also probably one of Soonyoung’s closest friends. One of the only people in the world that he trusts completely to see him exactly as he is without any judgment. Maybe it’s because Jihoon doesn’t try for moral superiority. Or to lecture him over shit that doesn’t matter. Or try to change who he is. Maybe it’s because he also could have been a good enough driver to hit the grid. Or maybe it’s just a strong bond fostered between a driver and his chief engineer. Jihoon is only the second chief Soonyoung’s had in his career and it’s been nearly 6 years already. They had been hesitant because Jihoon is the same age as Soonyoung and young for the job, but Soonyoung insisted and here they are. Whatever the case, Soonyoung knows before he clicks the link what he’s about to see.
Another day, another headline where your personal life is splashed across some gossip site. Even though you’re kind of a socialite, it feels like your personal life should not be this interesting. This time, you’re not even pictured. This time, it’s just your asshole of an on-again-off-again boyfriend, Taylor Williams, getting a little too cozy with someone who is very much Not You. A real downgrade, in Soonyoung’s opinion, yet someone could argue he’s biased. The caption wonders if there’s trouble in paradise once again. Something that seems all too common for you and him. Another reason that Soonyoung doesn’t do relationships, because this kind of drama isn’t for him. Every other day it seems like you and Taylor are breaking up or making up. Sometimes commenting on the stories, other times just ignoring them.
As a fun added bonus, Taylor Williams is also one of Soonyoung’s biggest rivals on the grid. Three years older, yet a little less decorated. Too accustomed to coming in second to Soonyoung. A fact that Soonyoung is always quick to point out. Each of the drivers also seems too quick to take a shot when they feel they can get away with it. Sometimes it works, usually it doesn’t. Most of the time it’s just the fans eating up the rivalry between Soonyoung at McLaren and Taylor at Ferrari.
Yet one thing that Soonyoung keeps to himself in the rivalry? His connection to you. Partly because he’s not sure why he can’t ever seem to ignore you. Partly because he’s sure it would bring even more heat to an already tense situation that could impact his team. Any issues with Williams were his own to deal with. It made for entertaining races, so most people let it go. Some even encouraged it. But, bringing their personal lives onto the grid? Too far, even for Soonyoung. So, you stay tucked in a little box. Only existing in his life behind closed doors.
Soonyoung: seems like things are crashing and burning
Woozi: again
Soonyoung: this is why you don’t fall in love
Woozi: until she texts you and you kick out whatever poor soul you have there now
Soonyoung: how do you know i have company?
Woozi: please
Woozi: did you forget i was right next to you when you picked that woman up?
Soonyoung: it doesn’t matter, she hasn’t messaged me
Just then, his phone makes him a liar. He sees a notification banner flash briefly with a single name showing: Trouble. The sigh escapes on its own.
Woozi: don’t do anything stupid and let me know if i need to cover for you
Summary - Soonyoung is ethereal, you conclude at the end of the party, and so does the heartbreak that follows him.
Tags: Kwon Soonyoung x f.reader, angst, fluff, pining
Warnings: none for now
Word Count: 1.5k
A's Note: one thousand words purely admiring Soonyoung, just what we need hehe. This is a spin off for touch series but with our very own SOONYOUNG!!! Touch series has only been fluff and this is gonna be more than that. He is still attached to his ex for god's sake!! hehe sorry for the dramatics! More to come and I hope you enjoy reading this!
And I am open for drabble requests!
Parties aren’t your thing. The mingling, fake laughing at the absurd jokes one cracks, and the loud music you feel beneath your feet. Never. You find yourself away from them, hiding beneath your duvet and disappearing into one of your novels. With time and adulting you find that one can’t completely escape from the responsibilities or networking, that’s how you find yourself on a new couch among dozens of people.
You don’t find any familiar faces except for the host couple, Jihoon and his girlfriend. You are friends with her, used to be neighbors, occasionally greeting each other across the corridor, and helping out in times of need due to the shitty maintenance of your building.
She moved out to this new place along with her boyfriend, and the housewarming party isn’t something you could cancel. Not when she was at your house, teary eyed, reminiscing all the old memories (bathing in your apartment as her shower broke down). You couldn’t say no to her face, and here you are.
The time on your watch says it's only been fifteen minutes since you have arrived. You sigh into your glass as you take another sip of your drink, the soda makes you wince, and you set the drink on the coffee table.
“Jihoonie!”
You startle at the booming voice and the wide open door almost banging the wall. A man enters the house with his open hands, walking straight to Jihoon. Jihoon swears, scolding him to enter in a more appropriate way and not cause an earthquake. The man continues to pull him in a hug as if he isn’t tearing his ear off. You shift a little in your seat trying to get a better look at him. He has long hair near his neck, considerably longer than any other man.
Jihoon shoves him off with a death glare. You shiver a little at his coldness, but in contrast the man just laughs, patting Jihoon’s shoulder. His laugh, a faint tinkling song among the chatter of guests, tickles your heart, and his eyes form crescents reminding you of the nights you sat near the window staring at the peaceful crescent moon. A sense of peace consumes you the more you watch him. He has a lean figure, the black turtle neck hugs his body perfectly. You stop yourself before you can drown yourself in dangerous waters.
At that moment, he turns around looking at the guests, waving his hand at a few, a little more excitedly at a select few, in the middle of his wandering gaze, he catches your eyes, pausing. You fluster from getting caught, your entire body freezing, unable to comprehend on how to play it off cool. He smiles at you, giving a brief nod before walking away to another person and pulling him into a hug.
You sit there, by yourself and your racing heart. Did he just say hi to you? To a complete stranger? An act entirely foreign to you. He looks handsome, dreamy and calming just from a few seconds of his laughter, and to top it off he is kind. He didn’t weird it out when he caught you staring like a complete stalker. And you find yourself searching for him again and again.
He is leaning against a wall listening to others talk, occasionally sipping on the drink in his hand. He doesn’t wince like you did. You reach for yours, to give it another chance, one little sip and you put it back in its place. No, you can’t do it the way he does it.
“Where did you disappear to?” Your ex-neighbor and the host of the party sits next to you. “I was about to take you on a home tour.”
“I went to get a drink.” You point at the drink. “The house looks pretty as far as I could see.”
She beams at the compliment. “Thank you! It took A LOT of time. I kid you not.” She holds your hand, pressing on it, “remember the pinterest board I showed you, I got to recreate them!”
You gasp, “that’s amazing. Hopefully you got a working shower this time.”
She throws her head back laughing. “I did. I did.”
“What’s the joke?” The handsome man makes his way to the couch, settling in next to your neighbor.
“Oh, you didn’t get to see the house too right?” She claps her hand excitedly.
You lower your eyes to your hands, suddenly nervous to have him this near, two feet away. You want to see him, look at him properly, study his features, make notes of the moles or any little scars you may find on him. He has you go crazy from a brief encounter, and you aren’t sure how you can handle being close to you.
“I didn’t.” He smiles at her, his eyes shining. He has small lips, you note, the bow shape of his upper lip is favorite of yours next to his eye smile. His lips move again, and you snap your attention back to his eyes before he catches you again. “Would love a tour of this lovely house from the lovely lady.”
You flicker your eyes to your friend and the stranger—frowning a little at his choice of words. Is he flirty? With everyone? It bugs you a little knowing he is close to everyone, or acts the part.
“Jihoon isn’t around to lose his shit.” Your friend brushes him off. “Meet my friend,” she holds your hand pulling you a little closer so he can get a good look at you. “My savior.”
“That would cause a riot, sunshine.” Soonyoung grins, “my friend, Jihoon, will not be happy with someone else being your savior.”
Sunshine? SUNSHINE?
“That would be up for discussion.” She agrees, “since he isn’t around we will just say she,” she pulls you into her, crushing into her side, “is, now more like was,” her eyes tear up again, and you panic, waving your hands desperately signaling her not to cry, again, “I will miss you my old neighbor.”
She pulls you into her chest, your face smashed against her skin and you tap her thigh to let go. She doesn’t. The same melodic laughter ignites your heart, a flutter in your stomach.
He pulls her hands off you, “she is dying.”
You are finally free. His eyes are on you, you try to straighten your stray hair, patting down your head furiously.
“Soonyoung.” He extends his hand. You swear his eyes twinkled and not the work of fluorescent lights hanging above.
You mumble your name, your hand shaking as you accept his handshake. His grip is strong, not bone crushing or not too light. Just enough. Your entire body lights up from just a touch of his hand. God, aren’t you down bad for him.
He repeats your name, and you love the sound of it, wanting to hear it again and again. Maybe if he says your name a few more times you’ll come to start liking your name you always hated.
“Alright, house tour.”
You let go of his hand dejectedly, silently following behind them, listening to them talk. Mostly about Jihoon and his introverted tendencies. Soonyoung would crack a joke here and there, she laughs and you smile to yourself. He is an outward person, you add another detail in his file in your head. And handsome, you add in small words, again.
The house tour is engaging, you notice the subtle details she actually made it out of the Pinterest board. You touch the collection of music CDs, trailing your hand over their spines.
“Jihoon loves music.” She says, “or more like collecting them. I never heard him play one of these.”
“Oh.” You let go of the collection and watch the man of your interest typing away furiously on his phone. His fingers flying across the screen, gone the playful happy smile. His pretty lips are pressed in a thin line, his eyes narrowed and the frown line between his eyebrows makes you second guess about him. He isn’t always happy as you deciphered from his earlier interactions. He can be scary, just like now, you take a step back from him.
“Soonyoung, who are you texting?”
He doesn’t answer her, turning away from us, completely blocking his phone from our eyes. You hear a sigh next to you, and with a thundering heart you hope it’s not what you think it is.
“I think I need to go.” He locks his phone and slides it in his pocket.
No. No. No.
“You shouldn’t, Soonyoung.” She steps up with a glare, “I told you multiple times. You can’t go back to your ex.”
He glares back, “it’s nothing.”
Your gaze bounces from one to another. He has an ex? An ex he misses?
“Fucking is not nothing. It’s high time you break whatever this connection is.”
“Not your business.” He pushes past her. “Bye.”
You stand rooted in your place, the hopeful crush you had on him falling apart.
Cam [ @highvern] and Em [ @gyuswhore] welcome you to the 2025 Formula One season! Handcrafted by Caratland's best writers, we're here to ask you to join us for the most riveting grid lineup the sport has ever seen. Catch all 26 destinations on our calendar, and all the drama that goes down in the paddocks with it, because soon it'll be Lights Out, and Away We Go!
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🏁 Race: Overtake by @sailorsoons
🏎️ Driver: Choi Seungcheol x f!reader
🛞 Race Stats: Seungcheol and your brother Joshua battle over everything - pole positions, championships, the title of Mercedes’ best driver. The one thing they were never supposed to fight over was you.
Practice Session 🏁 Paddock Pass
🏁 Race: all for one by @amourcheol
🏎️ Driver: Choi Seungcheol x f!reader
🛞 Race Stats: three-time world champion choi seungcheol races for greatness—even if it sacrifices red bull's constructor trophy. you, principal strategy engineer, cannot allow favouring the self-centred driver over the entire team. when a new red bull rookie threatens his position and certain rivals begin to tempt you, seungcheol must consider winning you over—a feat more difficult than a fourth championship.
Practice Session 🏁 Paddock Pass
🏁 Race: Off The Record by @soo0hee
🏎️ Driver: Yoon Jeonghan x reader
🛞 Race Stats: 3 seasons with sky sports. 3 seasons of navigating between drivers, the fia and stubborn team principals. 3 seasons and non had taken your breath the way 2025 had thus far. The reason? Yoon Jeonghan. Ferarris posterboy and the man haunting your gridwalks.
Practice Session 🏁 Paddock Pass
🏁 Race: Revving for Love by @nerdycheol
🏎️ Driver: Yoon Jeonghan x f!reader
🛞 Race Stats: You didn’t expect the guy you swiped left on at the airport to show up at your new job — let alone be one of Formula 1’s top drivers. As the team’s new physiotherapist, you’re here to keep things professional — no distractions, especially not Jeonghan. Charming, smug, and all too aware you once swiped left on him. What starts as cooldowns and awkward stretches quickly turns into something messier. Jeonghan is flirty, unpredictable, and far too in sync with you — and despite your best efforts, he’s getting under your skin. And without you even noticing… the lines start to blur.
Practice Session 🏁 Paddock Pass
🏁 Race: Birdie by @aeristudios
🏎️ Driver: Joshua Hong x reader
🛞 Race Stats: It would be fate that you would be filming a documentary of the same F1 team as your former high school sweetheart: Joshua Hong, F1 golden boy. He still remembers you as Birdie— the one that flew away without saying goodbye. Now, years later, you have to look him in the eye as he recounts what his life has been like without you.
Practice Session 🏁 Paddock Pass
🏁 Race: build this dream together by @joshujin
🏎️ Driver: Joshua Hong x f!reader
🛞 Race Stats: As his race engineer, you’ve spent five amazing years guiding McLaren superstar, Joshua Hong, to victory after victory. But in that fifth year, you learn something horrifying about yourself: you’ve fallen in love with your driver. You’re not willing to let your heart get in the way of everything you’ve worked for, so you do the one thing you know is guaranteed to keep both of your careers safe: you leave.
Two years later, Joshua inadvertently comes crashing back into your life with an announcement that rocks the F1 world. Before you know it, you’re on his doorstep with an offer you know he won’t be able to refuse, ready to guide him back to where he needs to be—one last time.
Practice Session 🏁 Paddock Pass
🏁 Race: burn for the win by @mylovesstuffs
🏎️ Driver: Wen Junhui x f!reader
🛞 Race Stats: being the engineer who knows too much and the sister who’s had enough means standing at the eye of the storm while two men she cares about tear each other apart. jun’s pride could still cost him everything, and yet he refuses to fight to fix what’s broken; neither will minghao. she’s tired of the fallout, but no one listens. a crash was only the beginning. now, can anything bring them back?
Practice Session 🏁 Paddock Pass
🏁 Race: open channel by @sknyuz
🏎️ Driver: Wen Junhui x f!reader
🛞 Race Stats: open channel follows you: a young radio engineer who joins the haas f1 team as the apprentice to laura müller, the first female engineer in the paddock, now the chief engineer who has you under her wing—and as the unexpected successor to your own father, the long-time race engineer of haas’s most elusive driver: wen junhui.
junhui is cold to the media, clinical on the grid, and famously unreadable behind the visor. but when your voice cuts through the static, clear and steady, even he can’t help but lean in—though neither of you knows yet how deeply your pasts are tangled in the echoes of a long-ago memory on the track.
Practice Session 🏁 Paddock Pass
🏁 Race: as seen on screen by @imnotshua
🏎️ Driver: Jeon Wonwoo x f!reader
🛞 Race Stats: Wonwoo doesn’t pay you any attention, not since you were both rookies - him on the track and you in the paddock. You’ve been at Ferrari for years, and now he’s joined the team you’re supposed to be working together, but it seems he still has that same stick up his ass whenever you have something to say.
Practice Session 🏁 Paddock Pass
🏁 Race: behind the lens by @wheeboo
🏎️ Driver: Jeon Wonwoo x f!reader
🛞 Race Stats: Years ago, you and Jeon Wonwoo were inseparable. First loves, reckless hearts, and dreams too big to share—until it all fell apart. He chased after podiums; you stayed behind your lens. Five years later, you’re commissioned in the paddock as a global motorsport photographer for a behind-the-scenes shoot, and he’s back in the centre of your frame as F1’s quiet, unstoppable force. And for the first time in a long time, your photographs begin to feel real again. This time, will your frame capture an ending, or a second chance?
Practice Session 🏁 Paddock Pass
🏁 Race: playing with fire by @starlightkyeom
🏎️ Driver: Kwon Soonyoung x f!reader
🛞 Race Stats: soonyoung doesn't do relationships. or strings. or repeats all that often, honestly. he's one of the best drivers on the circuit and he doesn't need to. the one exception? you, his biggest rival's on-and-off partner. he's always your first call when your relationship is splashed across the headlines again and he never seems to care.
Practice Session 🏁 Paddock Pass
🏁 Race: heartbreak champion by @straylightdream
🏎️ Driver: Kwon Soonyoung x f!reader
🛞 Race Stats: After being together since you were fifteen, things hit a rough patch as your husband chases his goal of being world champion.
Practice Session 🏁 Paddock Pass
🏁 Race: Under Investigation by @diamonddaze01
🏎️ Driver: Lee Jihoon x f!reader
🛞 Race Stats: Lee Jihoon doesn’t break the rules. He bends them. Just enough to get away with it. Just enough to make your job harder, just enough to see if you’ll flinch. He’s testing the boundaries. And the worst part? You kind of want to see what happens if he crosses them.
Practice Session 🏁 Paddock Pass
🏁 Race: shit, this is red bull by @gyubakeries
🏎️ Driver: Lee Jihoon x f!reader
🛞 Race Stats: the version of you that jihoon sees in front of him is not the you he remembers. bleached denim and torn flannels have been replaced by shiny heels and a crisp blazer. jihoon also learns that there are lots of things besides your new appearance that have changed, the most obvious one being — your love for racing. he has no time to waste on all these new facts though, not when the press is behind his ass and you're the only one who can get him out of the messes he creates.
Practice Session 🏁 Paddock Pass
🏁 Race: Burning Bridges by @bluehoodiewoozi
🏎️ Driver: Lee Seokmin x f!reader
🛞 Race Stats: When your fiancé chooses his Formula 1 career over you and makes it everyone’s problem, his teammate Seokmin is not about to just sit back and watch.
Practice Session 🏁 Paddock Pass
🏁 Race: red wine nights by @hannieoftheyear
🏎️ Driver: Lee Seokmin x f!reader
🛞 Race Stats: what's the worst time to hook up with your best friend and change your relationship forever? probably the night before he gets on a plane and flies far away to become a world famous star.
Practice Session 🏁 Paddock Pass
🏁 Race: Rumour by @gyuswhore
🏎️ Driver: Kim Mingyu x f!reader
🛞 Race Stats: It’s hard to dislike Mingyu, an acknowledgement he risks his modesty for. So when he approaches you with rose tinted glasses, clad in the team kit of his dreams, he’s ready to build a rapport of a lifetime with his brand new race engineer.
Until, the brakes screech loud enough for the entire paddock to hear.
It’s hard to dislike Mingyu, but you make it look easy.
Practice Session 🏁 Paddock Pass
🏁 Race: perfect strangers by @studioeisa
🏎️ Driver: Kim Mingyu x f!reader
🛞 Race Stats: for the first time in seven years, kim mingyu thinks he might actually have a shot at standing on the podium. he has a decent car, a good teammate, and... a girlfriend? after f1 tv erroneously tags a complete stranger as his 'partner', mingyu now has to reckon with being one half of the newest couple on the grid.
Practice Session 🏁 Paddock Pass
🏁 Race: one track mind by @haologram
🏎️ Driver: Xu Minghao x f!reader
🛞 Race Stats: after years in the spotlight, you've learned one thing: how to get used to new environments, good and bad. despite the time and the friends you've made along the way, things never really change — and that includes the mentality that winning is the only option.
Practice Session 🏁 Paddock Pass
🏁 Race: victory lap by @minisugakoobies
🏎️ Driver: Xu Minghao x f!reader
🛞 Race Stats: minghao's just led his team to another championship - so why can't he enjoy it? he's jaded, having grown disillusioned with his life, and in desperate need of the familiar spark that’s driven him all these years. lucky for him, a chance encounter with the enemy of his rival will set his ignition ablaze with one wild ride.
Practice Session 🏁 Paddock Pass
🏁 Race: bae-watching by @shinysobi
🏎️ Driver: Boo Seungkwan x reader
🛞 Race Stats: boo seungkwan is over it, really. he's been on the sports circuit for years, but covering any f1 championship gets harder every time. on top of that, he's supposed to get a "fresh angle" on a game that has none-until he's staring down the barrel of history, when she appears right beside the ferrari chief engineer. he's looking at you, but you have stopped looking at him a decade ago.
Practice Session 🏁 Paddock Pass
🏁 Race: along the rubble or the dust by @heartepub
🏎️ Driver: Boo Seungkwan x f!reader
🛞 Race Stats: in the high-octane world of formula one, boo seungkwan has clawed his way up with a mix of charm, grit, skill, and pure luck. he knows, more than anyone else, how coincidence can be a turning point. when, in an improbable series of events, his childhood friend starts lurking in the paddock as his new performance engineer, he gets the distinct feeling that this is about to be one of them. even if (or especially because) he’d rather trust you with his life than with his heart.
Practice Session 🏁 Paddock Pass
🏁 Race: Podium Pleasers by @shadowkoo
🏎️ Driver: Chwe Hansol x f!reader
🛞 Race Stats: F1 driver Vernon is no stranger to stunning women whispering wicked things in his ear during race season, but no voice has stopped his heart quite like yours. The ‘missing’ younger sister of one of his oldest friends. The girl who disappeared two years ago without a word. And now, you’re on his lap with your bare breasts pressed against his chest. He’s horrified to learn that you’re working at an exclusive strip club, tangled in a complicated contract where sex appeal is currency, personal relationships are forbidden, and your freedom is nothing but a twisted illusion. He wants you out, but walking away from a fantasy life built on status and money isn’t that simple. So, in a last-ditch effort, he offers you something else. Something real. A fresh start on the circuit as his assistant, where you can rebuild your future, possibly even a future by his side.
Practice Session 🏁 Paddock Pass
🏁 Race: slow and steady by @haoboutyou
🏎️ Driver: Chwe Hansol x f!reader
🛞 Race Stats: Aston Martin— once a top class, championship winning team, has become riddled with bad press. What better way to cover it up than throwing your driver under the bus? In a not-so elaborate scheme, Vernon and rising star Y/n are entrapped in a dating scandal to cover up the company’s ass, subjecting them to the wrath of public scrutiny instead. Will the awkward dates and busy schedules make way for something more? Or will they let their relationship be dictated by greedy corporations?
Practice Session 🏁 Paddock Pass
🏁 Race: This Town by @wqnwoos
🏎️ Driver: Lee Chan x reader
🛞 Race Stats: Ten years ago, Lee Chan left your hometown without ever looking back. Now, after a crash that loses him the championship, he’s back and asking for your forgiveness — but you’re not sure if you’re ready to risk your best friend leaving you again.
Practice Session 🏁 Paddock Pass
🏁 Race: The Boundary Concept by @kkooongie
🏎️ Driver: Lee Chan x f!reader
🛞 Race Stats: Lee Chan didn't know which was worse: the fact that he still liked you since high school (despite shutting down completely whenever you were around) or the fact that you wanted to meet up with him... for a research paper. But hey, he was willing to take any crumbs as long as he got an opportunity to make you realise he was a super cool racer now. That is, assuming he didn't crash under the intense pressure. Or, in which, you never knew writing a paper on the boundary concept would make you question the boundaries between you and Chan.
012 | SEUNGKWAN, to JOSHUA: Was Jeonghan telling the truth? Is it really you?
[JOSHUA remains silent. His expression is one of bitterness muddled with anger, and maybe a touch of helplessness that only comes to light when you look at him from a certain angle. He only looks straight ahead unwaveringly.]
002 | JEONGHAN: Of course he is. That’s why he’s not saying anything.
003 | JOSHUA: I wonder if you ever get sick of hearing yourself talk.
002 | JEONGHAN: Not when I’m right.
“THE DISCUSSION PERIOD HAS NOW CONCLUDED. PLAYER 003, A MAFIA, HAS BEEN ELIMINATED.”
012 | SEUNGKWAN: Damn, it really was!
[JEONGHAN visibly sinks back into the chair with relief. After all, had he made the wrong call, none of them would be alive right now.]
010 | SEOKMIN, desperately: This means we just need to find one more, right? Then we’re free?
[The others nod in agreement. However, there are only four of them left, and not enough evidence to correctly pick out one as the last mafia. Amidst the discussion, JUNHUI manages to catch JOSHUA’s gaze in silence.]
004 | JUNHUI: It’s not your fault.
003 | JOSHUA: Saying it over and over again doesn’t make it hurt any less.
004 | JUNHUI: Still… you did what you had to do. It’s a rule of nature.
[JOSHUA shrugs, only mere seconds before the laser pierces his skull. He hits the ground with a sickening sound that’s become all too familiar. Not a single person flinches. The remaining players all look at each other solemnly as an eerie feeling settles among the group. One wrong move, and it’s game over for three of them.]
012 | SEUNGKWAN, shaken: So… what do we do now?
004 | JUNHUI: We play.
002 | JEONGHAN: And we try to survive.
012 | SEUNGKWAN: Well, it’s all up to you this time, my friend. And I’m hoping either of you two are the doctor, or we have a worse chance than I thought.
[JUNHUI shrugs disinterestedly. SEOKMIN sighs and puts his head in his hands, leaning slightly into JEONGHAN’s side.]
“NIGHT HAS FALLEN. EVERYONE, LOWER YOUR HEADS.”
[SEUNGKWAN says something unintelligible as the lights dim.]
“MAFIA, RAISE YOUR HEAD. ON YOUR DEVICE, SELECT ONE PLAYER YOU WOULD LIKE TO ELIMINATE.”
[The final mafia ponders his options, brows knitted in deep thought. He takes a while to make his selection, but it barely even matters, does it?]
“MAFIA, LOWER YOUR HEADS. DETECTIVE, RAISE YOUR HEAD AND SELECT ONE PLAYER ON YOUR DEVICE WHOSE IDENTITY YOU WOULD LIKE TO REVEAL.”
[The choice is a very unnecessary one. The gears are already in motion. It is far too late, with any amount of information that was not already revealed, to turn them back.]
“DETECTIVE, LOWER YOUR HEAD. DOCTOR, RAISE YOUR HEAD AND SELECT A PLAYER ON YOUR DEVICE YOU WOULD LIKE TO SAVE.”
[A life-altering decision. SEOKMIN trembles in his seat, head bowed and fingers tightly twisted together. Can the doctor correctly single out tonight’s unsuspecting victim?]
“DOCTOR, LOWER YOUR HEAD. MORNING HAS COME. EVERYONE, RAISE YOUR HEADS.”
[Everyone looks up warily. Even JEONGHAN, who had kept an expression of ease throughout the game, wears a frown that barely masks his innate fear.]
012 | SEUNGKWAN: Did we… did we do it?
010 | SEOKMIN: Hyung, who’d you pick?
002 | JEONGHAN: I picked you.
[As he speaks JEONGHAN looks straight at JUNHUI, who slowly shakes his head. The temperature of the room seems to as everyone comes to the chilling realization.]
012 | SEUNGKWAN: Wait, then –
“THE MAFIA HAS ELIMINATED PLAYER 004.”
[JUNHUI doesn’t react. Neither do the others.]
012 | SEUNGKWAN: God, I knew it wasn’t you. From the start, I knew.
004 | JUNHUI: I don’t blame you. It’s like Minghao said. We were going to lose some game or the other anyways.
002 | JEONGHAN: It didn’t have to be this one…
004 | JUNHUI, smiling wryly: You’re right. But it is.
[JUNHUI gets out of his chair, kneels besides MINGHAO’s body. He brushes the hair away from his cousin’s forehead solemnly. He’s resigned. His eyes are those of someone who has seen unspeakable horrors.]
004 | JUNHUI, to JEONGHAN: You’ll never know.
002 | JEONGHAN, pursing his lips: What does that mean?
[There is no time for an answer. JUNHUI’s expression goes blank in the span of two seconds as the laser shoots through his skull. A clean, quick death, suitable for the merciless nature of these games. But in the wake of JUNHUI’s elimination arises a newer, bigger, question.]
002 | JEONGHAN: Seungkwan.
012 | SEUNGKWAN, frowning: What? It’s not me!
002 | JEONGHAN: Just come clean now, okay?!
[All three of their devices buzz in unison, screens lighting up.]
PLAYER XXX: GAME CLEAR.
PLAYER XXX: GAME OVER.
PLAYER 002: GAME OVER.
[The lights go bright all of a sudden, shining down on the three remaining players. SEOKMIN shifts in his chair uneasily.]
“MAFIA, TEN OF HEARTS. GAME COMPLETED.”
002 | JEONGHAN: Wait, it’s all over? Who–?
[It’s difficult to tell whose knees buckle first — but they both hit the floor at the same time, all bones against solid linoleum ground. The lasers come quickly and suddenly, as they do. The game waits for no one. The sound is awful, and it echoes nauseatingly in the empty bar.]
“PLAYER 010 — GAME CLEAR.”
[The lights are too bright. Too much, too sudden. SEOKMIN lurches forward, stumbling out of his chair and falling to his knees in front of JEONGHAN’s body. His hand is still warm. SEOKMIN allows himself to hope there is still a chance for him to live, but such a thing only leads to heartbreak.]
SEOKMIN: Fuck. We were supposed to get out of here together. You, me, Gyu.
[He’s not sure if he’s lying to himself. From the start, it was clear that such a thing might be impossible. But again, he had let himself hope. It’s a dangerous emotion.]
SEOKMIN: I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Hyung, I…
[SEOKMIN’s tears splatter onto JEONGHAN’s lifeless skin. Near the other, previously locked exit, a light turns on, illuminating a small table near some chairs. SEOKMIN rises reluctantly, making towards it, only stopping to kneel beside MINGYU and press a warm hand to his shockingly cold shoulder. On the little table lies a card, frayed at the edges but still unmistakable. The Ten of Hearts.]
SEOKMIN: Stupid visa. Stupid, stupid game.
[He takes it, regardless. A token of victory, if he can even call it that. What has he won? In the game’s aftermath, SEOKMIN is utterly, completely alone. But he cannot stop here and give up now.]
SEOKMIN: What the hell is even out there? How do I get back?
[SEOKMIN sighs deeply. He must get moving, find other people and maybe some information and resources for the night. He gives one last long look at his friends before turning his head sharply. Tears sting his eyes as he wanders outside. The laser barrier is gone now.]
SEOKMIN: Is this hell?
[Such a question does not stop him. It cannot. SEOKMIN looks over his shoulder one more time, a weakness he won’t ever let go of. His fingers tighten around the card, and he finally steps out into the eerily empty Seoul street.]
FIN.
hello everyone! it's finally come to an end, i hope that wasn't too anticlimactic...?
you can view behind the game to see my thoughts and behind the scenes information as well as a full role reveal. thank you for reading!!
Behold, all spooky creatures and enthusiasts thereof!
Welcome to the KPOP Halloween Week! This is an open collaboration event and a space to share the Halloween-themed KPOP content.
The event will take place from 25th to 31st October, 2025. During this time, Halloween-themed works of creators (graphic and written) will be reblogged here, on @k-halloween-week.
Any groups and types of works will be accepted, as long as they follow the Rules.
To have your work reblogged, you need to use #k-halloween-week so we can see it! It does not require any form of registration or acceptance prior, anyone can participate!
Every day of the Week will have Themes that content creators are welcome to adhere to. They aren't mandatory, though!
If you would like to take active participation in creation of the Themes, don't forget to fill the 2nd Halloween Survey!
Timeline:
1st - 15th August, 2025 - The 2nd Halloween Survey will be up! Fill it to let content creators know what would you like to see!
10th August, 2025 - The official Rules will be published!
16th August, 2025 - The Themes for each day of the Week will be announced. Get inspired!
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── .✦ Proud Is Too Small of a Word — Lee Chan (Dino) SMAU Oneshot
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Pairing : Idol!Lee Chan (Dino) x Reader Genres : SMAU, Established Relationship, Fluff Warnings : None
ᯓ★ Synopsis : You watch Dino command the EWC stage like he was born to shine, lighting up the world with his voice. You can’t stop themselves from telling him—again and again—how proud you are. The stage is his, but your love is louder.
you’ve spent years skirting around the idea, dropping hints here and there to guys you thought could be good enough, but somehow it never worked out. none of them felt right—not that it was about romance, but the hesitation always lingered when it came down to it. maybe it was nerves, maybe it was the wrong guys, but the frustration built up to the point where you just wanted to get it over with.
and then there’s jeonghan.
the guy everyone whispers about, cold-hearted, unapproachable, but with a reputation that’s impossible to ignore. girls gossiping in between lectures, bathrooms filled with whispers of him being distant yet insanely attractive. and somewhere along the line, you heard it—the rumor that he had the fattest crush on you.
the thought of it festered in your mind for weeks. yo know him, a few polite exchanges, some assignments you did together, pairing up on p.e... there’s a confidence in your gut that he’ll say yes.
you hadn’t planned on showing up at his dorm unannounced, yet here you are, standing outside jeonghan’s door with a racing heart and sweaty palms. knocking felt surreal, like a dream you might regret later, but you do it anyway because you’re desperate. a familiar, twisted excitement coils low in your stomach when you hear footsteps, and the door swings open to reveal jeonghan—leaning against the frame, as nonchalant as ever.
“what’s up?” he asks, eyes scanning your face like he’s trying to read your thoughts. the casualness in his voice makes you almost forget why you’re here. almost.
“can i come in?” you stammer.
he steps aside without a word, allowing you to slip past him into the small room. his dorm smells faintly of laundry detergent and something minty. it’s tidy, too—unexpectedly so.
“this is new,” he says, sitting on the edge of his bed, arms folded, watching you. “you showing up here and all.”
you laugh nervously, wringing your hands as you stand awkwardly in the middle of the room. “yeah, well… i’ve been thinking.”
his eyebrow quirks up, like he’s daring you to keep going. but you hesitate, biting your lip, trying to find the right words. you’ve played this conversation out in your head a thousand times, but now, under his steady gaze, everything feels impossible to say.
he tilts his head. “you’re not here to ask me about the assignment, are you?”
“no,” you blurt, suddenly sitting down on the chair next to his bed. you can’t meet his eyes. “it’s… something else.”
silence stretches between you. jeonghan waits, patient, but there’s something flickering in his expression now—curiosity, maybe.
you take a deep breath, your voice shaky but determined. “i want you to be my first.”
his eyes widen, and for the first time, jeonghan looks genuinely caught off guard. “what?”
“i… i want to lose my virginity.” you blurt out, no point in dancing around it anymore. you’ve been holding onto this for years, and you’re tired. tired of hearing your friends share their stories, tired of feeling left behind.
“you want me to do it?” he shakes his head, leaning back on his elbows, processing your words. “so what, you just wanna pop your cherry and bounce?”
“no!” you shake your head quickly, heart pounding as you try to explain. “i just… i don’t want my first time to be with some asshole. everyone else would treat me like a joke. but you… you wouldn’t, right?” your voice is small, and you hate how vulnerable you sound, but it’s true. jeonghan might have a reputation, but he’s never been cruel.
he closes his eyes, tipping his head back against the wall. inside, you can tell he’s thrilled—maybe he’s been dreaming about this. but the mask he wears is cold, detached, like he’s doing you a favor.
“you’re serious?” he asks, voice low.
“yeah,” you whisper.
he doesn’t move for a moment, just staring at you, like he’s deciding whether or not to believe you. then, slowly, he leans in, his face inches from yours. his breath is warm, and your heart skips a beat. it’s almost too much to handle, and you blink up at him, your voice a nervous squeak.
“are you… are you gonna kiss me?”
jeonghan furrows his brow, like it’s the dumbest question he’s ever heard. “what, you thought i was just gonna—” he stops, and you see the slightest flicker of a smile. “—get straight to it?”
you shrink into yourself a little, cheeks burning. “maybe?”
he chuckles, a low, rumbling sound that makes your stomach twist. “nah, you’re way too cute for that.”
before you can respond, his lips are on yours—wet, sloppy, and everything you didn’t expect. there’s no rush, no hurried fumbling. just him, kissing you slow and deep, making sure you feel everything. his hand moves to the back of your neck, pulling you closer as you melt into the kiss, your body buzzing.
then, he takes your hand, guiding it down to his lap, pressing it against the hard length straining through his sweatpants. you freeze, your breath hitching at the sudden contact.
“feel that?” he murmurs against your lips, voice husky. “that’s going inside you.. do you think you can take it.”
your fingers curl around him instinctively, squeezing just enough to make him groan softly. “i can.” you bite your lip.
“still sure about this?” he asks, his breath heavy.
you nod.
jeonghan's hands are all over you, moving so effortlessly, and before you know it, your clothes are off, tossed somewhere in the room. he’s slow, but it’s not the kind of slow that makes you feel exposed—more like he’s savoring the moment, taking his time like he’s got all night. and maybe he does.
when he spreads your legs, the sudden awareness of what’s happening, of how vulnerable you are, hits you. you instinctively cover your face with your hands, but you can still feel his eyes on you, taking in every inch of your body.
“cute,” he murmurs. “you hiding from me now?”
your breath catches in your throat, but you peek through your fingers to see him smirking, looking like he’s in complete control. and maybe that’s what makes it less terrifying—he’s not rushing. he’s not judging. he’s just... there.
when his head dips between your thighs, you tense, unsure of what to expect. your heart races, and you let out a shaky breath as his mouth hovers over you, his warm breath ghosting over your already wet folds. then he licks, slow and slick, and you almost orgasm there, the warm tongue on your clit making your eyes slightly roll back.
“fuck,” you gasp, your hands clutching the sheets beside you, your face burning.
he pulls back slightly, lips glistening, his eyes locking with yours. “relax,” he says. “we’ve barely started.”
and then his tongue is back, sliding through every fold, licking with a patience that’s almost agonizing. he’s focused, making sure you feel everything—every lick, every brush of his lips, every soft kiss to your inner thigh between his slow, sensual movements.
your chest heaves as you try to process the sensations, but it’s overwhelming. this is what you’ve been missing out on all these years? the thought is almost laughable now, especially when he sucks on your clit, gently at first, then harder, leaving it swollen and pulsing.
“oh my god,” you cry out, the sound escaping you before you can stop it.
jeonghan grins against you, winking naughty, and as if to rub it in, he gives your clit a playful suck, sending you squealing. he looks up at you, still grinning. “you like that?”
you don’t even answer, can’t answer, because your brain is too fogged up. you can’t think, can barely breathe, and he hasn’t even started properly yet.
his hand travels down between your legs, and he presses a finger against your slick entrance, not pushing in just yet, just applying pressure, teasing. “have you ever had your little fingers here?” he asks curious.
your face burns at his words, but you nod “just one finger,” you admit, shy and sly, like a secret you’re embarrassed to reveal.
the way you say it—so sweet, so unsure—makes him throb inside his sweatpants. he exhales heavily, eyes darkening as he pushes his finger inside, just the tip at first, slowly. “just one, hmm?”
you bite your lip, nodding as he slides the rest of his finger in. the sensation is new, unfamiliar, but not uncomfortable, his finger is a bit longer than yours. he’s careful, attentive even, and that’s what makes you relax into the feeling.
“you’re so tight,” he mutters as he adds a second finger, stretching you out even more. you wince slightly at the stretch, but the way he curls his fingers inside you, scissoring them slowly, almost instantly makes the discomfort melt.
your hips buck instinctively as he works you open, his movements precise, his eyes fixed on you like he’s studying every reaction. “how’s that feel?”
“good,” you breathe, the word slipping out before you can stop it.
he chuckles softly, his free hand moving up to caress your thigh as his fingers pump in and out of you, his pace maddeningly slow. “you’re getting impatient, aren’t you?”
you whine in response, your voice shaky. “take your clothes off,” you mumble, your neediness evident in your tone.
jeonghan pauses, amusement flickering in his eyes. “hmm? what’s that?”
“take them off,” you repeat, a little more urgent this time, your voice coming out in a needy whine.
he grins, leaning over you, his face inches from yours. “patience, baby,” he says, his voice soft, but there’s a teasing edge to it. “you really wanna see me naked that bad?”
you nod, shameless now, your body craving the sight of him, the feeling of him against you. he’s been teasing you for too long, and it’s driving you insane.
“just wait a little longer,” he says, his tone mock-sulky, like he’s the one being deprived. but there’s a smile playing on his lips, and you can tell he’s enjoying this, the way you’re practically begging for him.
his fingers curl inside you again, hitting a spot that has you arching off the bed, a soft moan escaping your lips. “you’re so cute like this,” he mutters, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh as he works a third finger inside you, stretching you even more.
you whimper at the new stretch, your body trembling, but it’s the good kind of overwhelming now. the kind that has you clenching around him, needing more.
“jeonghan...” you whisper, your voice breathless, desperate.
he smirks, his thumb brushing over your clit as he scissoring his fingers inside you, spreading you open. “i love seeing you like this,” he murmurs. “all wet for me, begging like that.”
you don’t even care how wrecked you sound when you plead, “please, jeonghan. take them off.”
he laughs softly, shaking his head. “soon,” he says, his voice dripping with promise. “just let me enjoy this a little more.”
jeonghan keeps his fingers inside you, watching every twitch of your body as you clench around him, so tight he almost groans himself. you’re so close, it’s written all over your face, but you don’t even seem to notice it—lost somewhere, breathing heavily but not quite there yet. and he’s not about to let you drift off when you’re so close to cum.
“mm, baby,” he murmurs, his fingers moving just a little faster, curling them in that spot he’s already learned by heart. “you don’t even know, do you?”
you blink, dazed, barely processing his words, but then you feel his lips on your nipple—a soft peck at first, then a sharp bite that has you gasping, your hips jerking against his hand.
“there you are,” he smirks, teeth grazing over your sensitive skin as he feels you clench around his fingers again, tighter this time. “you were drifting away, but i need you right here with me. focus.”
your body reacts instantly, the tension building again, winding tighter and tighter until you can’t hold back anymore. his fingers pump in and out, wet and slick with your dampness, and the obscene sound of it fills the room as he brings you right to the edge.
“fuck, jeonghan—” your voice is shaky, barely holding it together as your hips start moving on their own, grinding down onto his hand. you’re not even sure when it happens, but suddenly, the tight coil inside you snaps, and you’re coming hard around his fingers, your body tensing, then releasing all at once.
“oh my god,” you cry out, your back arching off the bed as you orgasm, wet and messy. you’re so slick that his fingers slide easily in and out, coated in the creamy evidence of your cum. jeonghan’s eyes are glued to you, watching the way your body trembles, how soaked you are, and the satisfied smirk on his face says it all.
“so fucking wet,” he murmurs, almost like he’s talking to himself, fingers still buried deep inside you. he slows down his movements, letting you ride out the aftershocks of your orgasm, his thumb brushing lazily over your clit. “you didn’t even realize how close you were, huh?”
you shake your head, still trying to catch your breath, your mind foggy from the bliss.
he leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your thigh, his eyes flicking up to yours. “wanna see me take it all off now?” he teases, pulling his fingers out slowly, letting you feel every inch of them as they slip free. your breath hitches, still sensitive, but you nod eagerly, the post-orgasmic haze making you a little desperate.
“please,” you whisper, your voice a little hoarse, but the need is clear.
he grins, sitting up and tugging his shirt off halfway, but he pauses, eyes scanning the room. “wait a second,” he says, a bit too casual, as he starts searching around for something.
“what are you doing?” you ask, frustration creeping into your voice. he’s making you wait, again, and you’re about to protest when he holds up a condom, waving it in front of you with a satisfied smirk.
“can’t forget this,” he says, climbing back onto the bed.
you roll your eyes, still breathless, but your gaze drops to his chest as he slides the shirt the rest of the way off. his hand runs slowly down his chest, over his belly, and lower still to the waistband of his sweatpants.
“calm down,” he teases, his voice sweet, noticing the way your eyes are locked on his every move. “i’m not going anywhere.”
your breath hitches as he pulls his pants and boxers down, finally revealing himself to you. his cock is hard, flushed, and slick with precum, and you can’t stop yourself from staring.
“fuck, you’re pretty,” you mutter under your breath, barely aware you said it out loud until you see the way his lips curl into a grin.
“you’re the pretty one,” he counters, his voice soft as he strokes himself once, twice, before rolling the condom on. his eyes flick up to yours again, playful but with a hint of seriousness. “ready?”
you nod, your body buzzing as he lines himself up with your entrance. he slides the tip inside, and you both groan at the contact. it’s slow at first, his cock pushing into you inch by inch, and you can feel the stretch, how full he’s making you feel already.
but then, right when he’s halfway in, you gasp, “wait—stop.”
he freezes instantly, his eyes searching your face. “you okay?”
instead of answering, your hand slips between your bodies, wrapping around the base of his cock. the sudden contact makes him shudder, and he squeezes his eyes shut, groaning low in his throat. you give him a little shake, feeling the hardness of him pulsing in your hand, then slowly start guiding him deeper inside you.
you guide him in slowly, inch by inch, until your hand has nowhere else to go, and he's buried completely inside you, balls deep. you’re panting, your body adjusting to the size of him, and when you pout your lips for a kiss, jeonghan leans in without hesitation, pressing his lips to yours, swallowing the little scoff you let out between moans. the sensation of him stretching you so perfectly has your head spinning.
he pulls back slightly, eyes glued to yours as he starts moving, his hips rolling in slow thrusts. it’s a sharp sting at first, but nowhere near as painful as you expected, and the more he moves, the more that sting fades, replaced by a growing heat that makes your breath catch in your throat.
you don’t even notice the way your lips curl into the nastiest grin, like you finally got what you’ve been wanting, and you’re enjoying every second of it. jeonghan sees it though, sees the way your expression shifts from tentative to pure satisfaction, and it drives him fucking wild. his steady thrusts falter for a second, and he has to bite down on the inside of his cheek to keep himself in check.
“fuck,” he breathes, his voice shaky as he watches you. “you look like you’re having the time of your life right now.”
you moan in response, not even trying to hide it anymore. “i am.”
that’s all the encouragement he needs. his thrusts pick up, sharper now, deeper, and with each roll of his hips, his balls slap against your ass. the bed squeaks in time with his movements, but you barely notice, too caught up in the pleasure. your moans spill out freely, louder and more unrestrained, each one sending a jolt straight to his gut.
jeonghan’s losing it, the sight of you, the sound of you—it’s gonna replay in his mind for days, haunting him like a ghost, but right now, he’s not thinking about that. right now, all he can focus on is the way your body feels underneath him, how you seem to want this just as much as he does. his hips move faster, thrusts sharper and more purposeful, and fuck, you’re taking it all so well.
“god, you—” he groans, his voice strained. “you feel so fucking good. you don’t even know.”
his pace quickens, his hips rolling harder, and you gasp, your body arching up to meet him halfway. he’s hitting all the right spots now, and your moans turn into desperate little cries, your fingers gripping the sheets as you lose yourself in the feeling.
he notices how much you like it—how your body responds to every sharp thrust, how your moans get louder, and that nasty smile on your face only grows. it’s too much for him, but he tries to bury the overwhelming need down in his gut, focusing on fucking you just right.
but even then, he can’t help it—the more you react, the more he loses control, his hips working in sharper, stronger thrusts, the rhythm getting rougher as he chases that perfect high for both of you.
“you like that?” he asks, his voice rough, but the way your body clenches around him is answer enough.
he can’t help but smirk at your desperate little gasps. each thrust brings a little more pleasure, and your nails dig into his back, urging him on as you match his pace.
“more,” you whimper, the need spilling from your lips like a prayer. “please, jeonghan, don’t stop.”
he chuckles, making your heart race. “as if I could,” he replies, picking up the pace even more. you feel that familiar heat pooling deep inside you again.
he can’t help but lean down, pressing a kiss to your neck as he continues to rock into you, relishing in every little sound that escapes your mouth.
“that’s it,” he murmurs against your skin, his breath hot. “let me hear you.”
your moans grow louder, echoing off the walls as you feel the pressure building within you again. your body thrums with need as you claw at him, the sensation of him filling you completely making everything else fade away. you’re lost in him, in this moment, and nothing else matters.
“i’m so close,” you manage to gasp, your words barely coherent as your hips start moving on their own, desperate for that release.
jeonghan feels it, too—your body tightening around him, the way you’re pushing back against him, and it drives him crazy. he grips your hips tighter, controlling your movements, thrusting deeper, harder, pushing you right to the edge.
“cum pretty, cum f’me,” he urges sultry, and you can feel that heat building to a boiling point.
“jeonghan—” your voice breaks, and just like that, you’re falling, you’re gripping him tightly, your body spasming as you cum, crying out his name as everything blurs into a haze.
“that’s it, baby,” he groans, his own pleasure rising as he watches you unravel beneath him. “so fucking beautiful.”
the way your body squeezes him as you ride out your orgasm sends him over the edge, and he follows you, thrusting harder as he lets go, filling the condom as you both collapse.
you both lie there for a moment, breathless, the only sounds filling the room are your mingled breaths and the soft creaking of the bed. jeonghan brushes a strand of hair away from your face, a lazy grin spreading across his lips as he looks down at you.
“so, do I get to be the one who pops that cherry again sometime?”
“if you’re lucky,” you tease bakc, but deep down, you know you’re both hooked, and this was just the beginning.
