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ATZ TV # the bloom beneath the frost ꗃ╭╯ park seonghwa.

𒄬 genre: slowburn / angst / suggestive / detective!seonghwa / figure skating au / f!reader insert.

𒄬 summary: a professional ice skater’s life is shattered when an anonymous admirer’s innocent gestures turn into an all-consuming obsession. With the help of detective Seonghwa, she must fight to reclaim her life—before the darkness consumes her for good. 𒄬 word count: 25k.

𒄬 warnings: stalking and obssesive behavior / invasion of privacy / psychological manipulation / anxiety / implied violence / emotional distress / mentions of crying, panic and fear of safety / harassament / police involvement / mentions of knife/blade and guns — not a warning but it's mentioned that it's winter season, also a lot of rainy scenes. — english it's not my first language, poor proofread tbh.

The ice rink was empty, and the sound of your blades was the only thing accompanying the silence.

The light was dim, bluish, as if the dawn still hesitated to peek through the tall windows of the arena. It was cold—not the kind of cold that cuts to the bone, but the kind that feels familiar, almost cozy, when the ice is the closest thing to home.

Because, in truth, it is home.

You adjusted your gloves, exhaled slowly. The steam from your breath dissolved in front of you. You closed your eyes for a moment, letting the sound of the ice beneath your skates surround you.

An imaginary beat began in your mind. One, two, three... And then you glided.

Each turn, each jump, each invisible line you drew in the ice told a story only you knew.

Being a professional figure skater was something you'd dreamed of since you could remember.

Or at least, that's what you thought.

But in that moment, when your blades glided over the ice and your body moved almost automatically, you could almost swear that it all had started that cold afternoon when your grandfather, with his big hands rough from years of hard work, took you by the hand to an ice rink for the first time. You were five. You had been walking through town after buying freshly baked bread, and just before crossing the street, he stopped in front of a billboard with bright letters: "Free ice skating class, this Saturday only."

You didn't say anything. You didn't need to. You just saw his eyes light up with that mischievous spark that used to appear when you were about to do something your grandfather disapproved of.

But the following Saturday, there you were. With used skates that were a bit too big, a hat that covered your eyebrows, and your knees already full of band-aids before even stepping onto the ice. The first step was a disaster. The second, worse. And the third ended with you face down, palms burned by the ice and your breath cut off by the fall. But you remember everything clearly: the cold smell, the crunching of the ice under the skates of other kids, your grandfather's soft voice saying: "Falling is not failing."

And then it happened. Between one fall and another, there was a moment—brief, magical—when you glided without losing balance. The wind brushed your cheeks, and you felt as if the whole world had stopped just to watch you float.

That's when you knew. This was your place.

The ice learned your name, and you learned its.

And since then, you never stopped.

Your grandfather didn't either. He, being the tireless doting he was, became your first fan, your chauffeur, your cheerleader in the stands. When, weeks later, he saw a poster about open registrations for formal classes at the local rink, he didn't hesitate for a second to sign you up. He bought your first second-hand leotard, fixed your skates with duct tape more times than you could count, and learned how to use his cellphone's camera just to film your pirouettes.

It all started months ago, with a bouquet of peonies.

After a morning practice that had been as exhausting as always, the fatigue accumulated in your legs, but the satisfaction of having reached the goal for that particular morning kept you on your feet.

You entered the locker room, ready to shower and prepare for the rest of the day. It was there, on your bench, where you found it: a bouquet of peonies, fresh and perfectly arranged in a small vase.

It didn't surprise you. Nor did you think too much of it. You knew it wasn't the first gift you'd received. Being a recognized skater, gifts from admirers were common. Flowers, letters, a stuffed animal... small gestures of affection, ways to express the admiration that surrounded you. None of it bothered you. You accepted them with a smile and left them in your locker, amidst the competition and practice, without thinking too much about them.

This bouquet of peonies, in particular, was pretty, but nothing out of the ordinary. You thought, like all the others, that it was just another show of admiration from some fan. You didn't even bother to look at the envelope or search for a signature to indicate who had sent it.

You left the bouquet there, on the table, and took off your skates. With a tired smile, you continued with your routine, unaware that this simple bouquet of flowers would be the beginning of something much bigger, darker. Something that, as time went on, would make you question how many other "admirers" you truly knew... and how many others hid behind the appearance of a simple flower.

Time passes in the blink of an eye, the practices are no longer just routine, now you're preparing for the nationals that will take place in a couple of months.

This year was supposed to be different from the others, because despite finishing with a good ranking in previous years, this year the main goal was to go to the internationals.

You had prepared your whole life for this. The internationals were the dream you still needed to fulfill, and you wouldn't rest until you brought that trophy to your grandfather. No matter the tears, sweat, or blood you had to shed to achieve it. That accomplishment wouldn't be just yours, but also your grandfather's.

Your first and number one fan.

Time passes in the blink of an eye, but to you, it feels like everything is out of place.

You didn't exactly know what it was, nor how to name it, but there was something in your daily routine that had started to unsettle you. At first, you thought it was just fatigue or stress—after all, you were giving your all to succeed in the nationals, and that was taking a toll on your body. But it felt like more than just discomfort from the pressure of the competitions. You couldn't shake the feeling that something was building up in the air, like an invisible pressure weighing on your chest. There was no exact description for it.

The flowers kept coming.

Peonies, daisies, orchids. Almost always from the same mysterious hand. You placed them in your dressing room and left them there, giving them no more thought, as if they were part of the decoration. But something changed each time. The first time you found them, you simply thought it was a fan who left a bouquet just because. It wasn't the first nor the last time someone had recognized your talent this way, and although you appreciated the gifts from your fans, there was something about this particular admirer that made something stir inside you.

At first, it was just flowers, with no signs or markings to indicate who was sending them, but then the letters started arriving.

At first, they were brief—sweet even. Written with neat, almost perfect handwriting. The person writing them put a lot of care into it, as if it was the most important thing in their life. "You have great talent," they said. "I've seen you skate in several competitions. Your gift is admirable. Keep working hard," "You're so beautiful when you're on the ice."

You could read them without much concern. After all, it was just another fan. Nothing you hadn't experienced before. However, as time passed, there was something about them that didn't sit right, a feeling that made you doubt, something that began to take shape.

You decided to ignore it. You wanted to think that you were just imagining things and there was nothing to worry about. After all, fans are part of the deal. That's what you thought at first. But then, the letters grew longer, and the flowers became more frequent.

The first of those letters came one morning, right after a long practice. You found it in your dressing room, next to a bouquet of lilies. The envelope was sealed with a wax you hadn't seen before. You opened it indifferently until you read the first paragraph.

"Please, never stop skating. The beauty with which you do it and the way you look on the ice makes me feel like you belong to me. It's strange, because the time I spend watching you skate is the only thing that makes me feel complete. I can't wait for our paths to cross."

A chill ran down your spine. It wasn't exactly fear. It was a discomfort that grew slowly. The letter continued, describing in detail your way of skating, mentioning your subtle movements, as if it were a meticulous observer. But what disturbed you the most was how they seemed to know every one of your moves, your gestures, your pauses. There was something in their words that made you feel watched, as if they were right there in front of you, staring.

"I know you're looking for me, even though you can't see me. I'll be waiting until you realize that we're meant for each other."

Far from comforting you, those words planted doubt in your mind. You looked at the letter in your hands again, then at the bouquet of lilies. The admirer seemed to know more about you than anyone else.

And you didn't know what to think about that.

That thought stayed with you all afternoon. Even when you sat down to dinner that night, you couldn't stop wondering if all of this was real. If you weren't exaggerating. Maybe it was just a fan too passionate. But the feeling of being watched didn't go away.

Not even for a moment.

In the following weeks, the letters arrived more frequently. Each one is more personal, more direct. The same elegant, well-marked handwriting—almost perfect—showed up in every one of them. One mentioned the way you spent your mornings, detailing your morning routine in a way you wouldn't have even thought of. Describing moments and aspects that only those closest to you could know. Suddenly, you felt like there was something in your life that was no longer yours, something someone else knew better than you did.

The next bouquet of flowers appeared at your house on a rainy night. A large bouquet of tulips. You hadn't gone to the rink that afternoon. So, it was unsettling to think that someone had been there, near your house, leaving that gift on your doorstep, especially when you asked the receptionist if they had seen anyone leaving the bouquet for you and their answer was no.

That only heightened the feeling of invasion in your mind.

A brief letter accompanied the tulips:

"You don't have to worry. Everything will be fine. I need you. Do you feel it too? When you finally get that, there will be no turning back."

You read those words over and over with your heart racing. You felt trapped, but you didn't know in what. The feeling of being stuck between who you were and who you were forcing yourself to be intensified with each letter, with each bouquet of flowers.

And even though the growing discomfort was forming, something inside you told you that you couldn't do anything. It was paralyzing. You didn't know who would believe you that an admirer could become a potential threat. You didn't want people to think you were turning into a paranoid person. But deep down, you knew something wasn't right.

So the practice the next afternoon wasn't the same as the others. For the first time in weeks, the ice rink didn't seem big enough, nor the air cold enough.

You felt distant.

Your movements became more mechanical and less fluid. When you attempted a double Axel jump, something went wrong. You landed badly on one foot, losing your balance and falling awkwardly. The sound of the ice cracking under your weight was louder than it should have been.

You couldn't remember the last time that had happened to you.

"Are you okay?" Your coach's voice snapped you back to reality. He looked at you sideways, frowning as he noticed your absent expression.

"Yeah..." you replied, but even you noticed you sounded empty. You didn't feel the same connection with the ice, as if you were separating from it, from yourself. You hurriedly took off your skates, letting the silence take over the rink. But as you took your first step off the rink, you felt the weight of the others' stares. One of the guys on the team, Wooyoung, was watching you with a frown, exchanging glances with his training partner.

Your mind wasn't there. It was occupied with the letters, the flowers, and that damned feeling of being watched. But the discomfort, the one you had tried to ignore for so long, was starting to show in the little gestures. In the practice, where you couldn't stop looking over your shoulder, as if you expected to see something or someone. The noises in the locker room were different now, pulling you out of your thoughts, making you feel like there was someone behind you.

When you were getting dressed to go home, a knock at the door made you jump in place. It wasn't a normal knock; it was insistent. You slowly approached, a knot of worry in your throat, opening the door cautiously and with fear, but on the other side, there was no one. Just a small package.

Another bouquet. A bouquet of small lilies and a letter. But the words it contained froze your blood.

"Every time you fall, I'll be there for you. I'm always there for you."

Your hands trembled, the paper creased between your fingers as you read it, and that cold sensation intensified.

"There is nothing I wouldn't do for you, and even if you don't understand it yet, everything I do for you has a reason. I want to see you, feel you, be part of you. We will meet soon."

Panic began to form in your chest, the letter slipped from your fingers and fell to the floor. You scanned the room, expecting to find something, something that would give a clue. You couldn't put a name, much less a face, to the person sending those letters, but it was someone intelligent. Someone who could have access to the practices and locker rooms without raising suspicion, because you no longer believed it was a joke, and if it was, it was going too far.

But before you could process it, the locker room door opened and after jumping, you tried to relax when you saw your grandfather enter with a cup of coffee in his hands.

"Everything okay, sweetheart?" His gaze didn't go unnoticed. You could distinguish the reflection of unconditional support and a slight concern that flickered in his eyes. "I've seen you distracted lately. Have you been getting enough rest? You haven't told me how things are going on the rink."

You tried to smile, but for your grandfather, who knew you better than anyone, he could notice something was different in your face. "Nothing important, Grandpa. Just tired."

He looked at you closely, not buying the excuse. His eyes scanned the room until they landed on the package on the floor, but he didn't say anything. A silence between you two became awkward.

"Are you sure?" he asked, and for a second, you felt like you couldn't hide anything from him. But before you could respond, he turned around, giving you the space you needed to calm down.

"I want to see you, feel you, be part of you."

With nationals just a few months away and performance down in the latest practices, the pressure seemed about to crush you. There was so much at stake, and it had been a while since you'd felt that suffocating frustration, that feeling that none of your moves were being executed the way they should, that you weren't achieving what you set out to do. It made you feel distant from your goal, but even further from yourself.

The ice rink, which had always been your safe place, no longer felt like that. Today, the soft music echoed through the speakers, but it didn't calm you, let alone help you focus. Even though you were alone on the rink, a thick emptiness surrounded you, but it wasn't loneliness you felt. It was something much more unsettling. Each glide of your skates on the ice seemed to echo louder in your ears, as if the sound was amplified by the growing anxiety invading your mind. The cold air wrapped around you, but it wasn't the cold of the ice, it was the cold of being watched, as if someone were there, and you couldn't see who.

The reflection of your face in the glass of the window looked strange, as if a shadow was lurking from the other side. The tension in your muscles grew with every spin you made, but you couldn't stop. Training had always been an escape, but this time, it wasn't. Each breath felt heavier, more tense.

Suddenly, a faint crack made you stop abruptly. The sound was so subtle you could have ignored it, but you didn't. A chill ran down your spine. Your heart beat faster, and the feeling of being watched intensified. You looked quickly around, but the rink was empty. Nothing unusual. The crack could have been the ice, it could have been the wind. Or maybe, something else.

You tried to keep skating, but another crack sounded closer. Something, or someone, seemed to be following you. Your mind began to spin, questioning every little detail. Was there someone there after all? It wasn't paranoia if it was really happening.

Each spin you took on the ice seemed to amplify the growing pressure in your chest. Your breath quickened, and you felt the urge to look over your shoulder, but you restrained yourself. The shadows seemed to move with each step you took, as if you were trapped in a spiral of thoughts and fears.

This wasn't normal.

The next practice came, and although the company of your teammates should have been a relief, you felt more uneasy than ever. Taking a brief break and sliding to the edge of the rink, you let out a sigh of exasperation, trying to relax your tense shoulders, but the heaviness in your chest wouldn't disappear. That's when Wooyoung, one of your closest teammates, approached with his usual smile, but there was something different in his expression. His gaze was more curious, almost worried.

"Is everything okay?" he asked, leaning toward you. His tone, slightly concerned, didn't match the usual lightness of his words. "I saw you were a little distracted on the rink."

You forced a smile, though it wasn't a genuine one.

"Just tired. Nothing to worry about."

Wooyoung seemed to hesitate, but then shrugged and changed the subject.

"Well... it looks like you've got a secret admirer, huh?" His tone was lighter, almost joking, but his gaze didn't stop watching you closely. "I saw you leave the café this morning, and a note was right on your backpack."

The air left your lungs. You couldn't remember where you had left your backpack that morning, much less seeing a note on it. Your heart raced, and a lump formed in your throat.

"What kind of note?" you asked, trying to stay calm, though your voice trembled.

Wooyoung smiled again, but he didn't seem as amused as usual.

"I don't know, I couldn't see it clearly, but it looked like a letter. I thought maybe another admirer..."

His playful tone didn't ease you. A flash of alertness ignited in your mind, making your whole body tense. What if Wooyoung was right? What if the admirer was closer than you thought, following you every step of the way without you realizing it? The feeling of being watched grew stronger, more persistent, like a shadow over your shoulders.

That night, you couldn't shake the feeling that someone was stalking you. The letters and messages you had received didn't seem so innocent now. The idea that someone was in your personal space, watching you, touching your things... filled you with growing anxiety.

"I don't like being possessive. But I also don't like someone else seeing you the way I see you. Your teammates seem very close. I don't know how to feel about it. The way they smile at you... it does something to me. No one deserves to breathe the same air as you. You're unique. You're incredible. I know you're made for me. And you'll know it soon."

The pain from the fall took you by surprise, but the anguish in your mind was even worse. As you fell, the blade on your right skate slid with more force than usual, and before you could stop yourself, the ice struck your wrist with a sharp pain. Breathing became difficult as the pain spread quickly through your arm, but the worst part came when you looked at the damage on your skate.

The blade was visibly damaged, as if someone had deliberately tampered with it. An accident? No, it couldn't be. You knew your skates, took care of them, kept them perfect. Someone had sabotaged your equipment. Fear and shock overwhelmed you. There was no way this was random. Someone had been following you—close enough to damage your skates without you noticing.

Terror settled in your chest, and you grabbed your aching wrist with your other hand, as blood rushed to your face. The sensation of being watched was so intense, you could almost feel eyes fixed on you.

"Every time you fall, I'll be there for you. I'm always here for you."

The feeling in your wrist didn't go away. Every time you tried to move it, the sharp pain reminded you of what had just happened—the fall that not only left a mark on your body but had also left much deeper scars.

The ice, once your refuge, now felt foreign, dangerous. You had come to the conclusion that something wasn't right, but you couldn't keep ignoring the growing need for answers.

You had found your life on the ice, but now you feared it might end there.

You had bandaged your wrist quickly, without paying much attention to how clumsy the job was. The bandage covered the pain, but not the doubts piling up in your head. The admirer's letter kept spinning in your mind, and Wooyoung's words—though they had seemed innocent at the time—now echoed loudly.

There was something else. A real danger, something you couldn't just ignore.

Your teammates looked at you with curiosity—some concerned about your wrist, others unsure how to handle your growing distance. Somehow, that made you feel even more vulnerable, like everyone could see what was really happening, even if they didn't fully understand it. You felt fragile, exposed. The paranoia had gotten to you, but the warning signs were as clear as the damage to your wrist.

The dull noise of your own thoughts intensified as you walked through the ice rink's lobby, your breathing slightly more agitated than usual. You couldn't stop looking toward the shadows stretching in the corners—the feeling of being watched had never been stronger. The echoes of those messages seemed to follow you everywhere, like they could pierce every thought you tried to keep steady.

As you left the rink, you realized the sun was beginning to set, darkening the world around you. A familiar place, but with an atmosphere that no longer felt safe. A couple of times while walking, you turned quickly, feeling like something moved behind you. But there was nothing. Or at least, that's what you thought.

You came to a sudden stop. You felt the urge to talk to someone, to share your fears, but with who? You didn't want to overwhelm your grandfather, let alone worry him. He had already done so much for you over the years, and you didn't want to add another burden—and even if you tried, your words would get stuck in your throat. You needed more than comfort. You needed answers. You needed to know if you were just being paranoid, or if what you felt was actually happening.

You wanted to put a face to the author of your nightmares.

With a sigh and all the strength you could muster, you pulled out your phone and searched for the police number. Your fingers hovered over the screen.. You had to do it, but the mere idea of facing reality paralyzed you.

You decided to go through with it.

The phone rang several times before a deep, calm voice answered on the other end. "Seoul Police, how may I help you?"

You took a deep breath, your heart pounding in your chest. "I'd... I'd like to report something. Someone is stalking me, but I don't know what to do."

There was a brief silence on the line, as if the officer was assessing the seriousness of your words. "I understand. I'll need you to give me more details."

The police station smelled like stale coffee, dusty paperwork, and anxiety. The perfect blend to make you feel even more out of place. The air was thick with that uncomfortable silence that only blooms between white walls and eyes that don't linger long enough. You felt like you didn't belong the moment you walked through the door, arms crossed over your chest as if you could protect yourself just by pressing your elbows tighter against your ribs.

You were sitting on one of the hallway chairs, too straight, your back stiff like holding onto perfect posture might keep you from falling apart inside. You clutched a cloth bag against your chest, tight like a shield. Inside, neatly folded, were the letters. The small gifts. Each one was proof that what haunted you was real. Each one a piece of the invisible presence that had crept into your life.

If someone had asked you at the start of the year what your expectations were, you never would've imagined it would come to this.

Your leg wouldn't stop shaking. You breathed through your mouth in shallow attempts to keep a composure that no longer felt like your own. Around you, the low voices of officers, the occasional slamming of doors, the sound of phones and keyboards being tapped in a hurry—everything felt too present. As if the world outside had kept spinning without you. No one seemed to notice you. And paradoxically, that made you feel even more exposed. Like a whisper in the middle of a storm—ignored but precariously there.

"Kong (Y/N)." The voice came from your right, and as you looked up, your breath caught for a moment.

Two men approached. The first had a serious face, neutral but resolute expression, and a black folder in his hands. The second... had the most intense eyes you'd seen in a long time. He was tall, firmly built, with a straight posture and a quiet presence—like he moved cautiously even within chaos. His face held a cold, precise beauty, but not a distant one. He looked at you directly—not with pity, not with judgment—but with attention. As if he was already trying to understand you.

"I'm Detective Kim Hongjoong, the one who took your call yesterday, and this is Detective Park Seonghwa," said the shorter one gently, while they both showed their badges out of habit. "We're in charge of your case."

You nodded with a barely perceptible motion, clutching the bag even tighter. You wanted to say something, but your voice stayed trapped in your throat.

"Can we speak in private?" Seonghwa asked, respectfully, without moving too fast—as if he knew you needed space to process each word. He didn't pressure you, didn't try to touch you or rush you. He just waited.

You stood up clumsily, feeling like your legs still hadn't decided to follow you. You noticed how Seonghwa's eyes dropped for a second toward your bag before meeting yours again.

"I brought... everything I've received," you finally said, voice low, as if admitting it made you more vulnerable.

Seonghwa nodded slowly. He didn't interrupt.

"Perfect. We'll go over it together," he replied, guiding you with an open hand toward one of the more discreet rooms in the station. He didn't touch you but walked by your side, keeping a respectful distance—balanced between professionalism and protective presence.

Kim Hongjoong walked behind you both, flipping through the folder while muttering something about the timeline of the incidents. More practical. More direct. But all you could feel was Seonghwa's glance from the side—subtle but constant, as if he wanted to make sure you didn't fall apart on the way.

Park Seonghwa was tall, with a lean but defined build, like someone whose body had been sculpted with the precision of someone who always had to be ready. His posture was impeccable—straight back, slightly tense shoulders, neck stretched as if his whole body was on quiet alert. Each of his movements held a deliberate restraint, like he avoided taking up more space than necessary... and yet, he filled the room the moment he entered.

He wore the standard civilian uniform with a near-dangerous sobriety: dark pants, fitted shirt, the first button always fastened, and a black coat made of thick fabric that fell to his thighs like a shadow clinging to his frame. His boots echoed in steady rhythm against the concrete floors—unhurried, unshaken.

But the most striking part was his face.

Seonghwa had a severe beauty. His features were sharp, almost sculpted—high cheekbones, firm jaw, thin lips, and eyes as sharp as a scalpel. The kind of face you wouldn't forget, even if you'd only seen it once in the rain. His skin was pale, contrasting with the darkness of his clothes and the jet-black hair falling over his forehead in slightly messy strands, dampened by the evening mist.

His eyes were the most unsettling: dark, calm, but full of observation. He always seemed to be looking beyond the obvious, dissecting intentions, analyzing gestures, collecting information. The kind of gaze that made you feel bare even without a single touch.

Despite all that, there was nothing aggressive about him. His voice was low, soft, like a stream of water in winter. He spoke little, with well-measured phrases, and never raised his tone unnecessarily. When he addressed someone, he did so with a mix of respect and distance that was confusing. He listened attentively, but did not offer undeserved sympathy. His neutrality was his shield. And behind that shield, something else seemed to be hiding.

At the police department, some considered him an enigma. Others respected him without fully knowing him. Little was known about his personal life, and he never bothered to refute rumors. The only clear thing was that he had an impeccable record solving complex cases, especially those where the line between victim and perpetrator wasn't so clear.

Park Seonghwa was a man made of silence, of intuitions, of unspoken truths.

And now, he was in charge of your case.

"We'd like to hear your story, Miss Kong," the black-haired detective's voice pulled you out of your trance.

You slowly lifted your gaze from the floor, as if your eyes were heavy, and adjusted your body in the cold office chair. The icy metal seeped through the fabric of your coat, a sharp reminder that you were far from comfort and control. Detectives Park and Kim's eyes were fixed on you, attentive, patient... dangerously penetrating. They were waiting for you to speak. Waiting for you to say something, to untie the invisible knot clinging to your chest.

You were supposed to be safe here.

That's what you kept repeating. What you wanted to believe. Because you didn't want to be just another case. You didn't want your life to be reduced to a few pages in a file, a series of black ink notes among hundreds of others.

Seonghwa settled into the chair in front of you with a calm that seemed rehearsed, but not fake. There was something almost soothing in his posture, in the way he interlaced his fingers on the table without hurry, without pressuring you. Kim Hongjoong, on the other hand, remained standing by the door, flipping through the file with such well-executed indifference that it made you suspect how much he was really absorbing. Because you knew nothing escaped him. Every word, every gesture, every silence was being recorded in his mind.

"Start whenever you're ready," Seonghwa said. His hands rested folded on the table, no notebook, no recorder on yet. Just him. Just his voice. "Take your time."

You took a deep breath. The air tasted like metal and old paper. You closed your eyes for a second, as if that could help you organize your thoughts, jumbled together with sleepless days and that constant feeling of being watched.

"Umh— I'm a professional skater," you began with a trembling voice, barely a whisper breaking through your dry lips.

Seonghwa knew that. He had seen your face on TV once on one of his days off. He knew who you were and the fame you carried. But now, sitting in the office chair, you looked nothing like the girl who moved with confidence and poise on the ice rink. Now you looked like a life without a soul, with lost eyes and pale skin.

"When you're part of entertainment, it's normal to have a fanbase— some people find a kind of inspiration in you and we like that. We like knowing that our talent is appreciated, that our effort makes some kind of difference," you clutched your bag to your body and your voice cracked, drawing even more attention from the detectives. "Never, in all the years I've been in this sport, did I think something like this would happen to me. At first, I didn't want to make a big deal out of it, at first I didn't see anything abnormal, but now I'm scared," you declared.

"Detective Kim mentioned you've received a series of items that have made you feel unsafe," Seonghwa gently interrupted, waiting for you to continue.

"Yes," you said. Shifting your gaze from the floor to the two detectives. "It started with flowers, something innocent. That's why I didn't think much of it... then the letters started," you said, your fingers finally releasing the bag, as if a piece of your soul slipped away with that gesture, and you placed it on the desk. Both detectives put on gloves, the latex making a subtle sound as it adjusted over their hands. With meticulous care, they removed the contents of the bag.

"When they started, they were also innocent. They just praised my work and what I do on the ice. I wasn't alarmed by that. The letters were short— direct. They had no signature, no seal, not even an address that might tell me who they could be from, but like I said, it didn't seem like a threat. It wasn't the first time I'd received gifts from a fan, or letters of admiration."

"What was it that made you feel alarmed?" Seonghwa asked while Hongjoong began taking notes without lifting his eyes.

You swallowed with difficulty. The knot in your throat burned, and with it came all the memories. All the moments you turned around and no one was there, but you felt someone had been. All the days you questioned if you were paranoid. All the mornings you had wished you didn't have to leave home—

It was a nightmare.

"The first time I noticed something different was with a letter. It was longer than the others. It said something about not being able to wait for our paths to cross. That's when I started to feel uneasy, but even then, I chose to ignore it. Then the letters kept coming. The next one arrived at my apartment. That time... I hadn't even gone to practice. It made me feel vulnerable. They were already entering my private life and managed to do it without anyone at the front desk noticing. The following letters kept the same purpose; they said we were meant for each other, that even if I didn't know it, we were destined to be together."

Now the detectives weren't looking at you, but reading the letters laid out on their desk.

You decided to continue. "Since that moment, I haven't been able to live normally. The fear is always present. I feel watched. Like someone is always there, just behind me, but when I turn around, there's no one. In the last letters, they say they'll always be there for me. My training has been affected. My performance isn't the same. I make more mistakes now than I did when I was a rookie. At first, I didn't care, but now it's interfering with my life, with my work, and it's overwhelming."

The detectives remained silent, analyzing what you said and what was written in the letters. Although there was still nothing concrete, having taken that weight off your chest made you feel a little lighter. You moved your hands on your lap and let out a groan when the gesture tugged on your bandaged wrist.

It didn't go unnoticed by Seonghwa. He looked up quickly, his eyes fixed on your expression, on the reflexive gesture as you grabbed your aching wrist with the other hand, making a small pout without realizing it.

"How did you hurt your hand?" Seonghwa asked without preamble.

You stayed silent.

You had forgotten about that part.

"Yesterday... yesterday I had practice. I was alone. And I fell on the ice," you said.

"Well, I guess with everything on your mind, lack of concentration is enough to cause an accident," Hongjoong murmured without stopping his writing.

Seonghwa, however, didn't take his eyes off you.

You swallowed, feeling the vertigo of what you were about to say.

"I think— I think whoever's sending the letters caused me to fall," you blurted out, and both looked at you, waiting for you to continue. "My skates... the blade of my left skate was damaged, like someone had tampered with it. It couldn't be wear and tear— my skates are always taken care of, there's not a day I don't check them."

"Is this person capable of accessing your belongings?" Seonghwa asked.

"Unless they know the password to my locker... but they had sent a letter before, it's the one with red ink," you pointed out.

"I don't like being possessive. But I also don't like someone else looking at you the way I do. Your teammates seem very close. I don't know how to feel about that. The way they smile at you... it does something to me. No one deserves to breathe the same air as you. You are unique. You are incredible. I know you're made for me. And you'll know it soon." Seonghwa read aloud.

The air that followed that reading felt like a slab on your shoulders. You felt the air grow heavier, harder to swallow. Even the distant hum of the fan in the corner of the office seemed to stop for a second.

Seonghwa lowered the letter slowly. His eyes, which had shown professional calm before, had now hardened. There was something in his gaze you couldn't name... contained fury? Concern?

"The tone changed completely here," he said, without looking up. "This is no longer admiration. It's a declaration of control. Of possession."

Hongjoong nodded. "These kinds of phrases aren't just expressions of affection. They are signs of obsessive disorder. The language is controlling, invasive... and potentially dangerous."

You felt your skin crawl. As if the words had clung to your clothes, your skin, as if that 'admirer' could hear them from some hidden corner of the building.

"Have the letters continued arriving regularly?" Hongjoong asked, pen ready over his notebook.

"Yes," you replied in a low voice. "About one per week. But... the last one came three days ago. It wasn't in my locker or in my apartment's mailbox. It was inside my dressing room, at the private practice rink. No one else had access. That rink was closed for maintenance. Only I had the key."

That made both detectives look at each other. It wasn't just any look. It was one of those silent looks, filled with professional understanding. With alertness.

"Have you ever noticed someone out of place? Someone who seems to watch you too much? A constant figure in the audience or near your personal spaces?" Seonghwa inquired, lowering his voice slightly, as if afraid to push your memory too hard.

You thought for a moment. Part of you didn't want to relive those small moments you had chosen to ignore for the sake of your mental health. But now, each of them returned like a sharp knife:

"Recently... After one of my late-night practices, I felt like someone was following me to the parking lot. I didn't see anyone when I turned around, but I felt the gaze. Then, one night... I found my water bottle uncapped. I hadn't left it like that. I threw it away just in case."

"Did you report it?" asked Hongjoong.

You shook your head. "I didn't want to seem paranoid. In this world, when a woman raises her voice about something that might be a threat, she's sometimes labeled as dramatic. I was taught to endure, to keep going. But this..." you lowered your gaze, hands gripping the edge of the chair, "this is breaking me."

Seonghwa slowly stood up, walking toward a filing cabinet at the back of the room. He opened a drawer, pulled out a form, and returned to his seat. He slid the paper toward you.

"We're going to open a formal investigation," he said firmly, "and we're assigning you protection."

You looked up, confused. "Protection?"

"From now on, someone will be with you during your training, at least until we have more information. And we're going to review the facility's security cameras. All of them. I also want you to give us that key. We're going to check if it was duplicated without your consent. And we're keeping these letters. We'll have them analyzed. We'll try to see if we're lucky enough to find some DNA on them."

For the first time since you entered that office, something close to relief seeped into your chest. But it was a strange relief, twisted, mixed with an even greater fear: the fear that, despite everything, that man might already be closer than you imagined.

"And one last thing," Seonghwa said, stopping you before you could pick up the pen. "I want you to call us if anything out of the ordinary happens. Any shadow. Any note. Any unfamiliar face."

You nodded slowly.

His eyes found yours again, this time more human, warmer. "You're not alone, Ms Kong. I promise you that."

The white lights of the training center flickered as if they too felt the winter cold seeping through the cracks in the building. The rink was empty at that hour; only the distant murmur of an industrial dryer and the buzz of the fluorescents accompanied your steps.

The metallic echo of your blades on the ice rang through the vast space. It was a familiar sound, almost comforting... but today, it didn't sound the same. Something felt off. As if someone was breathing in the shadows, just beyond your line of sight. You took a deep breath. The vapor escaped your lips in a small cloud. You closed your eyes for a second, forcing yourself to remember the music, the choreography, the reason you were there.

"Focus. You're not alone. Detective Park is nearby."

You had asked for it. Not directly, of course. But in your statement at the station, your trembling voice said more than words. And he understood.

Seonghwa watched from the upper stands. He wasn't in plain clothes this time, but wearing a black jacket with no insignias, seated with legs crossed, his eyes following your every move as if he could read your mind through your body.

You spun. A simple one. Then a more complex figure. The ice responded to your commands as always... but you were no longer the same. Your movements were precise but lacked soul. Grace had been replaced by stiffness, fluidity by vigilance.

On the final jump, you landed poorly. The blade scraped an uneven groove on the rink and you lost balance for a few seconds. Your arms lifted to regain posture, but the imbalance felt deeper than a mere technical error.

You stopped in the center of the rink, hands on your knees, trying to catch your breath. Your eyes scanned the stands.

Seonghwa didn't move.

But he didn't look away either.

You slowly skated to the edge of the rink, right where you had left your water bottle and towel. But that's when you saw it. Your backpack, open. The zipper is halfway undone. You were sure you had closed it. You always did.

Your pulse quickened.

You looked around. No other skaters. No one else in the hallways. Only Seonghwa in the stands, who had now stood up, his brow just slightly furrowed.

You approached cautiously, breathing through your nose, trying not to give in to panic too quickly. You opened the main pocket.

It was there.

A white envelope. No sender. No markings.

A new one.

You couldn't move.

"(Y/N)?"

Seonghwa's voice broke the silence.

You felt the warmth of his presence at your side just seconds later. He had come down without you noticing. His eyes lowered to the envelope. He didn't take it from you. He waited.

You took it with trembling hands. You opened it.

"Don't be afraid. I'll always be here to protect you. The rink is only for us."

The paper trembled in your hand.

You let go of it before your knees completely gave out.

Seonghwa didn't say anything as you shook. He just watched you.

The way your shoulders barely rose with each shaky breath. How your fingers didn't seem to know whether to cling to the envelope or let it fall. In the end, it fell.

Seonghwa picked it up without looking at you. He immediately pulled a plastic bag from the inner pocket of his jacket and stored the letter as if it were a fragile relic. The paper was still warm from your hands.

And that infuriated him.

So close.

The guy had been so close. Not just as a shadow in your mind, but physically, in your space, touching your things. He sealed the bag with surgical precision.

He looked up again.

You were still there, rigid, your eyes fixed on the ground. For a second, Seonghwa didn't see a professional skater or just another victim. He saw a woman exhausted from within, standing only out of sheer inertia.

"Let's go," he said softly. "There's nothing else to do here."

He didn't touch you. He offered the exit with a barely visible gesture, giving you time to gather yourself. He walked beside you to the locker room, silent. Only after you closed the door behind you did he take out his phone.

"Unit 03, this is Detective Park. I need a review of the training center's perimeter cameras from the last three hours. I want eyes on all entrances. And someone to check the list of employees with building access after closing time." He paused briefly, glancing at the closed door. His voice dropped, almost to a whisper. "This is no longer a game."

He hung up. Leaned against the wall, arms crossed, staring into nothing as if he could solve the case through sheer willpower.

Everything was too clean. The guy was careful, methodical. No prints, no mistakes.

And yet... Why leave a letter where he knew Seonghwa would be? Was it a provocation? A warning? The rink is only for us...

A shadow moved at the end of the hallway. It was you.

He met your eyes for a moment. Nothing was said, but you nodded, as if his presence alone was enough.

__________________________________________

The hallway lights flickered above your heads as they walked side by side. You had already changed clothes, the hood of your coat covering part of your face, arms crossed as if trying to protect yourself from the entire world. Your skates hung from one hand, hitting your leg with every step.

Seonghwa kept a respectful distance, but his eyes never stopped scanning the surroundings. Every shadow was a threat. Every corner, a possible hiding place.

Outside, the cold was dry and biting. The Seoul sky was overcast, with that urban glow that never allowed complete darkness. Seonghwa walked a few steps ahead to open the car door for you without saying anything.

You hesitated. Just for a second. The guy—the admirer, the stalker, whatever he was—had been there, in the same building, watching you, maybe closer than you could imagine. The night air suddenly tasted like confinement. Like invisible eyes.

You got into the car.

Seonghwa closed the door softly and then walked around the vehicle to take the driver's seat. When he started the engine, the silence became denser. Not uncomfortable. But heavy with everything that wasn't being said. During the first few minutes of the drive, neither of you spoke. The car moved smoothly down the nearly empty avenues, the low sound of the tires on the asphalt filling the space. You clutched at the sleeves of your coat, turning your face toward the window, but he could still see your reflection in the glass.

Seonghwa wasn't one to talk just to fill silence, but his eyes were thorough. He saw how your chest rose and fell faster than normal. How your jaw was clenched. How your hand trembled slightly when you adjusted the scarf under your chin.

He knew you were afraid. And that you were fighting not to show it.

"Do you want me to stay close tonight?" he asked suddenly, without looking at you.

You took a while to answer. The red traffic light cast flashes across your faces.

"I don't want to be alone," you finally whispered, also without looking at him.

That simple phrase—so vulnerable, so direct—hit him like a silent shot. He didn't say anything. Just nodded with a brief movement of his head.

"I'll secure the perimeter of your building," he added, as if he needed to justify his presence. As if protecting you was the only way to stay without crossing the line.

The rest of the drive was a silent truce. A truce between fear and vigilance. Between duty and something softer that didn't yet dare to be desire.

When you arrived, you didn't move right away. Your fingers played with the zipper of your coat, your gaze fixed on the building's entrance.

"Do you want to come up?" you said, without turning around.

It was a simple offer. Almost practical. But Seonghwa understood it was more than that. It was a crack in the wall. A door opened to something neither of you knew how to name.

"Yes."

The sound of the door closing seemed louder than usual. As if it sealed off the outside world and, with it, everything that had happened that night. The apartment was dim, barely lit by the city lights slipping through the living room window. Seonghwa stood by the door for a few seconds, quickly scanning the surroundings. A mechanical sweep, the usual. He did it every time he entered an unknown place: number of exits, blind spots, visibility angles. You dropped the skates by the entrance in silence. You took off your coat slowly, as if it were heavy. The space carried a faint smell of vanilla, mixed with lotion and something sweet. Something of yours. The space was small, tidy. But there were signs of presence: an open book on the table, a folded blanket on the couch, a used candle on the windowsill.

Seonghwa said nothing. He didn't ask if you lived alone, although he already knew the answer. He didn't comment on the place, didn't try to ease the tension. He walked toward the window and glanced out at the street, hands behind his back.

"The hallway lights were on, but there are no cameras in that area," he finally said, his tone low and firm. "He probably knows that."

You nodded from the kitchen, pouring a glass of water with careful movements. You wanted to keep your composure. But the phrase "he probably knows" echoed bitterly. That nameless "he" was already part of your everyday life. Already lived here, among your things, in your routines.

"Do you want anything?" you asked, just to break the silence. The glass of water trembled in your hand.

"No. Thank you."

He turned toward you. Watched you for a second longer than necessary. The shadow of the curtain danced across your face. The exhaustion was beginning to show in your eyes, even if you tried to stay strong. It wasn't fear that hurt the most in your expression... it was exhaustion.

"Do you always train this late?" he asked, not out of curiosity, but as part of his assessment.

"Sometimes. When I need to think," you drank. "Or to stop thinking, really."

Seonghwa nodded slightly, without responding. There was something about the way he listened that disarmed without demanding anything. He didn't intervene. He didn't fill the void. He just was there.

"I'm going to check the locks," he then said, direct, as if trying to divert attention from any vulnerability.

You let him do it. Followed him with your eyes as he moved through the place with that meticulous calm, checking each window, each latch, making sure everything was in place. When he finished, he stood again in front of the door.

"Everything is in order for now," a pause. "I'll leave you my personal number. If anything happens tonight, any unusual noise, call me. No matter the hour."

"Are you leaving?"

Seonghwa hesitated.

Just for a moment, but long enough for you to notice. It wasn't fear that held him back. It was... something else. Something he didn't even want to name.

"I can stay in the car," he finally replied, neutral. "I won't be far."

You lowered your gaze, fingers tightening around the empty glass. You didn't stop him. You didn't ask him to stay either. It wasn't that kind of bond. But the silence that followed weighed more than any plea.

"Thank you for being here tonight," you said, barely audible.

Seonghwa nodded, and when he opened the door to leave, he looked once more inside the apartment. Not out of suspicion. But because there was something about that space that seemed important.

And then he left.

The day hadn't quite begun.

The clock read 5:37 a.m., and the city still yawned under the orange glow of streetlights and the distant murmur of traffic just beginning to stir. The curtains barely moved with the cold dawn breeze, and in the room, the only sounds were the hum of the old radiator and the persistent throb in your temples.

You'd been awake for more than an hour. Body at rest, but mind in constant motion.

You slowly lowered your feet to the cold floor. The wood creaked under your weight, a minimal sound that startled you nonetheless. You walked barefoot to the window, wrapping yourself in a blanket as if that could protect you from something more than the cold.

And there it was. The black car.

Parked right out front, like a silent presence. Unmoving. Watchful.

You were grateful to see it. Seonghwa was meticulous, even more than he appeared. Cold, maybe. But never careless.

Your phone vibrated once on the table.

Park Seonghwa: All quiet for now. Let me know if you go out.

You said nothing, though your chest fluttered a little. You didn't know if it was from relief... or from the fact that someone was watching so closely. For the first time, it wasn't the admirer. It was someone who could give you back a sense of control. Even if it was with the same stillness he used to watch a case.

The station coffee was bitter and lukewarm, and Seonghwa didn't bother to hide his distaste at the first sip. He set it on the table without further interest, returning to the open folders in front of him.

Photographs. Letters. Schedules. Maps.

All perfectly organized, like a choreography only he seemed to understand. He had already read every word at least ten times, had reviewed the recordings one by one, and still... something was slipping through.

Too clean. Too controlled.

The envelope found in your backpack had no fingerprints. No DNA. No mistakes. Only words. And that was the most unsettling part. The admirer knew what he was doing. Played with confidence. And did it close. Very close.

He paused a recording on his laptop. A shadow crossing faintly in the background of the rink, just as the lights flickered. A blur. Not even a clear silhouette. But enough to confirm something: it wasn't imagination.

Seonghwa remained still a few seconds longer. Then he closed the folder with surgical precision, stood up, and grabbed his coat.

It was no longer the time to stay behind a desk.

The building rose in silence beneath the dull gray of an overcast morning, its tall, cold walls like mute witnesses to something yet to be discovered. The wind barely brushed against the windows, but the stillness had weight, as if the air were holding its breath.

Park Seonghwa crossed the glass doors without announcing himself. His badge rested in the inner pocket of his jacket, out of sight. For now, he wasn't a detective. He shouldn't look like one. His presence needed to blend in with that of any other visitor—someone ordinary, harmless, perhaps waiting for an elevator or visiting the rink.

The echo of his footsteps rang against the polished marble of the lobby, as though each movement fractured the silence. The place smelled of trapped moisture and cheap cleaning products. In the back, the reception desk was just starting its day. A young woman flipped through a logbook with her head down, distracted, not noticing his arrival.

"Excuse me," he said, in a calm voice, as if he didn't carry the weight of a looming threat on his back. "Is Mr. Lim from maintenance still here?"

She looked up, surprised more by the sound than by the question. She hesitated for just a second, then nodded slightly.

"He's in the boiler area, down the emergency door. Would you like me to call him?"

"No, thank you. I know him."

He lied naturally. He didn't know him, but he had read his name among the employees who signed the technical inspection reports.

The emergency door creaked like a rusted hinge. The sound dragged down the stairwell as Seonghwa descended, his footsteps muffled by bare concrete. The walls showed signs of neglect: peeling paint, dampness creeping like dirty veins. Old security cameras watched him from corners—some with blinking red lights, others dead, blind.

On the lower level, an electric hum and the metallic scent of hot copper led him to a narrow room. There, Lim was kneeling in front of a fuse panel, adjusting cables with trembling hands.

"Mr. Lim? I'm Park Seonghwa, from the police department."

The man jumped, accidentally hitting the panel with his knee.

"Did something happen? Is it the hot water again?"

"No," Seonghwa replied. "I came to ask you some questions about the building's access points. Specifically, the south changing room."

Lim blinked, clearly confused.

"What about that changing room?"

"Have you noticed anything out of place lately? Doors left open, someone entering after hours?"

The man frowned, trying to remember.

"Now that you mention it... about three nights ago, when I finished my shift, I could've sworn that door wasn't closed properly. I thought it was a slip-up from the cleaning girls, but..."

"Did you report it to anyone?"

"No. I locked it and left. Didn't think it was serious."

Seonghwa nodded. He made a mental note.

"Are there cameras covering that area?"

"Yes, two. But..." Lim scratched his head. "One hasn't been working properly for weeks. And the other is... well, kind of tilted."

He led him into a dark room that smelled of burnt plastic and stale coffee. A dozen dusty screens showed fragmented mosaics, blurry images, with no clear sync. Lim searched the system for the file from the previous week. The footage played for minutes without showing anything relevant, until—on Wednesday night—a figure appeared.

Hooded. Slim. Barely a shadow in the lower corner of the frame. It didn't look at the camera. In fact, it avoided it with almost choreographed precision. It stood still for a few seconds, watching something off-camera. Then it disappeared, as if it knew the exact moment to leave.

"Can you zoom in?"

Lim tried, but the quality was awful. Grainy. The outlines faded into static. Only a trace of movement could be made out, a shade of dark colors.

"I can't give you much more," he said, apologetically.

But Seonghwa didn't look away. There was something in that figure's posture, in the exact way it waited before moving, that wasn't random.

It was calculated.

He captured a screenshot of the frame.

"This will help. Thank you, Mr. Lim. If you remember anything else, no matter how small, call me."

He left him his card. Walked out into the hallway without another word, his pulse tight.

The subject had been there. And not far from where you used to change every night.

He cursed under his breath, jaw tightening as he headed upstairs. In the distance, he could barely hear the sound of blades gliding over the ice. Scattered voices and music trickling through the speakers created an almost unreal atmosphere. The contrast between the latent threat and the apparent normalcy of practice made him more alert.

He knew you hadn't come today. After what happened last night, you decided to stay home. A sensible decision. Just in time.

Park Seonghwa was a meticulous, methodical detective. There wasn't a case he couldn't close. For him, the victim was always the priority. But this case... this one felt different.

Too clean. Too calculated.

The sender wasn't seeking immediate attention. He didn't want to be seen—not yet. And that made him far more dangerous. The letters you received contained no fingerprints other than your own. The paper, the ink, the envelope: all handled with gloves. The cameras: evaded with surgical precision. Your routine: memorized in detail.

It was a silent game. A hunter studying every step before the strike.

And Seonghwa still didn't have a single solid lead on his identity.

Judging by the silhouette in the recording, the stalker was a young, slim man, between twenty-five and thirty-five years old. But that didn't help much. In your daily life, surrounded by fellow skaters, coaches, admirers... there were at least a dozen who fit that description.

"Sorry, today's practice isn't open to visitors," a voice pulled him from his thoughts as he neared the ice rink.

Seonghwa looked up. A young man approached him wearing skates, long tousled hair and a polite but curious expression.

About twenty-five or twenty-six years old. Approximately five feet eight inches. Slim.

"Jung Wooyoung, right?" the detective said, tilting his head to the side.

The boy frowned slightly and nodded, hesitant.

"Could we talk?" Seonghwa reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his badge. Wooyoung raised his eyebrows and motioned toward the rink.

"Coach!" he called. "I'm taking a break!"

He glided over to the bleachers and sat next to Seonghwa. The ice in front of them stretched like a vast shining surface, barely marked by the lines of skates. The laughter and background music contrasted with the growing tension between the two men.

"Is this about (Y/N)?" the question came bluntly.

The detective didn't respond immediately. He watched the rink, recalling the last time he saw you practice. Your movements were precise, but that night they were filled with anxiety, as if your thoughts were skating faster than your feet.

"Why do you think this is about Ms Kong?"

Wooyoung sighed. "(Y/N) is one of our top skaters. She's always in competitions and no one's more dedicated to this sport than her... She doesn't skip practice, she's always here. In morning sessions and night ones if necessary. The world could be ending, and she wouldn't stop skating."

Seonghwa made a face that almost resembled a crooked smile.

"You know her well, it seems."

The boy shrugged. "I've known her for five years."

"Mr. Jung, have you noticed any strange behavior during your practices? Anything or anyone that seems out of place?" the detective asked.

Wooyoung shook his head. "I train four days a week, sometimes double sessions. The rest of the week I'm at the gym or home," he replied firmly. "The only thing I've noticed is how distant (Y/N) has become. For months now, she always seems distracted or looking over her shoulder. That's why I figured this was about her."

"Anyone in particular who seems out of place?"

"The training schedules are posted on the board at reception. Of the five service days, two are open to the public. People can come in and watch us practice—some have been coming for a long time, others come and go. It's hard for me to be sure about that. I don't usually pay much attention to the stands."

Seonghwa nodded, but his gaze didn't leave the ice.

Every word, every detail, was building an invisible web.

And at the center of that web... was you.

That night, the rain beat insistently against the windows of your apartment. The glass vibrated softly with every gust of wind, as if the building were breathing with difficulty. Outside, the streets were almost empty, covered by the wet veil of the storm. The sound was constant, a muffled symphony that slipped between the walls, mixing with the faint hum of the refrigerator and the ticking of the clock in the kitchen.

You had forced yourself to stay busy. You had cleaned the counter three times, reorganized the cutlery drawers, and folded all your towels with almost military precision. But nothing worked. Every shadow on the wall looked like movement. Every creak in the floor, a footstep.

You were sitting on the couch, a blanket over your shoulders and a cup of tea cooling between your hands, when the doorbell rang. A single dry, abrupt chime. Your heart shrank instantly.

You stood up cautiously, without making a sound, as if the bell could hear you in return. You looked through the peephole and, on the other side, you recognized the figure. The relaxed posture. The unshaken expression, even under the rain. Park Seonghwa.

You breathed a sigh of relief, though you didn't know why.

You opened the door.

He wore a soaked jacket and his hair was slightly wet. Drops fell from his jaw down to the collar of his coat. But his gaze was the same: focused, serene.

"Sorry for coming without warning," he said, without even shaking off the water. "There's something I need to show you."

You let him in.

You were surprised by how easy it was to let him in.

Seonghwa walked slowly through the narrow hallway of your apartment, observing without judging, yet alert to every space. He pulled out his phone and showed you the image. The still frame. The hooded figure near your dressing room.

Your body tensed. It was small, barely a silhouette, but you knew—you knew—they had been there for you.

"This was three nights ago," he explained. "They came in through a back door. No locks were forced. They knew how to move."

You said nothing. You felt the air in the room grow denser, as if the pressure increased with each word. Your throat closed, but you forced yourself to speak.

"What now?"

"We don't let our guard down."

He sat across from you, without invading your space. He looked at you in that way of his that seemed to scan everything without saying much. But his eyes, this time, weren't cold. There was something else. Compassion? Maybe.

"You're not alone in this."

You stayed silent. It was the first time someone said those words out loud.

You're not alone anymore. The knot in your chest, the one you'd been dragging for weeks like a stone under your sternum, loosened just a little.

You stood up and offered him a towel. He accepted it with a slight nod, as if he weren't used to small gestures, to warmth without conditions.

After that, without saying anything, he stayed a while longer. He looked around, scanned the locks, the windows, even the kitchen.

"I'll change the locks in the morning. And I'm going to request a camera for the entrance."

"What if it doesn't work?"

"Then we'll install more. I'm not going to let this escalate."

That "I'm" was an unspoken pact. You didn't ask him to stay. You didn't invite him. But he had made a decision: he was now part of this.

There was a long silence, but not an uncomfortable one. A silence in which two people understand that safety can also come in the form of presence.

The rain kept hitting the window.

"Do you always work like this, Detective Park?" you asked, with a slightly ironic tone. "Do you usually soak your clients' carpets?"

He let out a soft laugh, almost mute, but genuine. It was the first time you truly saw him smile.

"No. Normally I'm much less charming."

"Lucky me, then."

Your fingers toyed with the blanket you had placed on your lap.

"Are you going to stay all night?"

He didn't answer immediately.

"Just until you stop looking out the window like something's about to break the glass."

That made you smile, even though it hurt.

That night, you didn't sleep together. He stayed in a chair near the door, keeping watch in silence. But his presence was enough for you to close your eyes for the first time in weeks... without fearing what would be on the other side.

"Today you were beautiful even when you didn't realize it. I like when you pretend not to be afraid. I like it more when I know you can't sleep. I'm no longer satisfied with only watching. Soon, you'll know how it feels when I finally have you close. Very close. You look gorgeous when you check the locks twice."

One month later.

It was as if everything had slowed down, as if the echo of those intense days had gradually faded—like a song that didn't quite end, but no longer played as loud. The world moved around you in a strange rhythm, the harsh reality of the past giving way to a fragile peace.

Weeks had passed since the last time the admirer had sent a letter. No flowers. No signs. The cameras installed by Seonghwa caught only the comings and goings of pigeons and bored neighbors. Almost every day, Seonghwa checked them with a mix of skepticism and contained anger, his eyes scanning the footage with an intensity that seemed to question the quiet. As if his instincts refused to accept what his eyes confirmed: nothing.

But something wasn’t right.

For Seonghwa, silence was worse than the letters you used to receive. It wasn’t a sign of surrender. No, it was the calm before the storm. A storm that he couldn't predict, couldn't explain, but feared all the same.

His investigation continued, quiet and relentless. His report folder grew like an open wound, a testament to sleepless nights, endless contacts, and hours spent reviewing the footage again and again. His determination burned fiercely, but he never burdened you with it. Instead, he watched. As if, by simply watching, he could ensure everything would be okay.

And, for the most part, it was. Life went on. You went on.

Training resumed. Your schedule became organized once again, as if the chaos had never existed. The first time you put on your skates after everything, your legs felt tense, as if the ice might shatter beneath you, as if it could betray you. But it didn’t. The ice held you, steady and familiar, as it always had.

Slowly, the fluidity returned. Mistakes still happened, but they became less frequent. You were regaining yourself, inch by inch. Your teammates would occasionally ask if everything was okay. And you—well, you could only offer them a half-smile, a sigh, and a nod.

Seonghwa often accompanied you to practice. Not on the rink, of course, but you’d find him in the stands, watching you with that focused expression of his, a contrast to the white, clean expanse of the ice. At first, his constant presence felt wrong, out of place. But eventually, you began looking for him.

One day, while you were on the ice, you caught him watching you. It wasn’t invasive. Not the way someone would look at you with desire or longing. It was different—quiet, careful. He seemed to be studying something he didn’t fully understand: the way you moved, how you breathed, the way you glided across the ice.

You said nothing. You simply smiled at him.

He blinked, as if surprised by the exchange, and quickly looked away. But then, he smiled too. Small. Honest.

And that was how it began—small gestures. Small conversations. A coffee at dawn after training. A silent walk home. Sometimes, you'd talk about trivial things. Other times, about nothing at all. It wasn’t quite closeness—not yet. But it was something. Something real. Like the warmth in your hands when you rub them together on a cold winter day.

Seonghwa didn’t cross the line. Neither did you.

But there were moments when the line became blurry, and neither of you knew how to keep it clear.

All the while, the admirer wasn’t asleep.

He was watching. And when he watched, he saw everything.

He saw how Seonghwa accompanied you. He saw how you laughed. How you awkwardly offered him your gloves, joking. How Seonghwa dared to hold your wrist a second longer than necessary.

That was unforgivable.

The notes he had once left you were now torn to pieces, crumpled and thrown away in rage. The flowers he had carefully chosen now lay trampled beneath his feet, discarded in the trash. He had become a ghost of what he once was—obsessed, wounded, and consumed by a jealousy that boiled over with every passing moment.

He had seen you first. He had chosen you.

And seeing someone else take his place? That was a betrayal he could not—would not—tolerate.

The day had been cold, but not biting. But on the ice rink, your world had been something else. Getting back to training felt almost normal. The icy breeze as you spun, the crackling of the ice beneath your blades, your breathing in rhythm with a body used to effort... all of it gave you an illusion of control, as if you could slowly take the reins of your life again.

And he was there, as always.

Leaning against the rink's window, Seonghwa watched you in silence. Not watchful. Not inquisitive. Just present. His presence had become a constant—like a coat that doesn't weigh you down, but still keeps you warm. The coffee in his hands steamed faintly as his eyes followed your every movement with a focus that didn't seem purely professional.

That afternoon, when you finished your routine and came out with cheeks flushed from exertion, he smiled in a way so gentle it seemed to melt a little of his usual seriousness.

"How did you feel today?" he asked, handing you a water bottle.

"Like I could finally breathe," you answered, with a smile that came more easily now.

"I saw you fly a little."

You let out a laugh. It was strange to hear someone describe it like that. Fly. Not skate. Not perform. Not deliver.

Fly.

You looked at each other a second too long. Then, as if both of you sensed something invisible beginning to grow between you, you looked away at the same time.

"Do you want to get something to eat?" he asked suddenly, breaking the tension with a calm tone.

"Yes. But nothing fancy," you said with a shrug. "Just... something simple."

The place you went to wasn't in any tourist guide. A small shop hidden among the alleys, with hanging lanterns and worn wooden tables. You ate tteokbokki, mandu, and some hot soup. The heating was minimal, but the atmosphere was warm. Outside, the wind dragged dry leaves across the sidewalk. Inside, steam rose in swirls from the bowls.

"I never thought this would be my life," you said, staring at your soup without touching it. "Training, looking over my shoulder, sleeping a little... and having to be strong all the time. But with you... I don't know. Sometimes I forget to be afraid. Even if it's just for a while."

Seonghwa looked at you with that quiet intensity that defined him.

"You're not alone in this," he said. "Not while I'm around."

You looked up. There was something in the way he said it that didn't feel like duty. Something more human, more intimate.

"Sometimes I wonder..." your voice dropped, "if he's still out there. Watching."

Seonghwa took a few seconds to answer. Then he nodded, his eyes shadowed. "Profiles like his don't disappear. They just hide."

The answer was blunt, but you were grateful. You didn't want sweet words—you wanted the truth. But the weight of that truth was easier to bear with him at your side.

After paying, you walked for a while. The city had that deceptive calm of a Friday afternoon. The sky deepened into a rich blue while the orange lights of the streetlamps began to glow like urban fireflies.

You walked beside him, hands in your coat pockets, beanie covering your ears. Seonghwa said nothing, but his presence was steady, protective.

Passing a closed flower shop, you stopped.

"Do you like peonies?" you asked suddenly.

Seonghwa raised an eyebrow.

"The flowers?"

"Yes."

"I don't know. I've never thought about it," he said, looking at you curiously. "Why?"

You smiled, but there was a hint of melancholy in it.

"I just think it's strange how something so beautiful can end up having such a... terrible meaning."

He didn't say anything. But he looked at you a little longer than usual.

When you reached the building, something about the night felt heavier. It wasn't the cold, or the silence. It was a subtle vibration in the air, like a whisper hidden between the bricks. But you didn't notice. Or didn't want to.

Because you were thinking about how nice the walk home had been. How well you had eaten. How Seonghwa looked at you without pressure. About that safety that came from knowing you weren't alone.

As you climbed the stairs, you dared to joke:

"Are you staying for another cup of coffee in my kitchen again? Because you're wrecking my caffeine budget."

Seonghwa let out a short, low laugh—but it was genuine.

"If you let me, I'll bring my own coffee tomorrow."

You smiled. A simple moment. A warm moment.

And just before opening the door, you thought: maybe, just maybe... everything's going to be okay.

But you turned the key.

And then the air changed.

The door opened with a faint creak. The sound of the lock giving way didn't seem unusual, but something—a dull vibration, a tremor beneath the skin—made both of you freeze on the threshold.

The first sign was the silence.

Too absolute. Too heavy.

You stepped inside, and the creak of your boots on the wood was so loud it seemed to shatter something invisible in the air. Seonghwa, right behind you, tensed instantly. His hand brushed the belt where he usually kept his weapon, though he wasn't carrying it now.

The living room didn't look messy. At first glance, everything was in place. But it took you less than a second to notice. "Something's wrong," you whispered.

The couch cushions weren't how you'd left them. The vase of dried flowers on the coffee table was shifted slightly to the left. Just a few centimeters. The coat you'd hung that morning was on a different hook. And one of your mugs—your favorite one, the one you always left upside down in the sink—was face-up.

It was as if someone had been there. Walking through your home. Breathing your air. And then, carefully, had put everything back.

But not quite the same.

"Don't move," Seonghwa said, voice deep, his arm stretching out in front of you to stop you. His dark eyes scanned everything quickly and precisely.

He moved first. Every step, silent. He opened a door. Checked behind furniture. Looked at the window. Nothing.

You followed, heart starting to race. When you reached the shelf where you kept your trophies, you froze.

And there—emptiness.

Where your first regional trophy used to rest—that slightly tarnished silver figure with your name engraved—there was now only dust. A perfect outline where it had once stood. "He took it," you said, barely a whisper. "My first regional trophy. It's gone."

Something inside you twisted, a mix of nausea and adrenaline rushing through your body. Your lips trembled, your legs faltered—and you weren't ready for what came next, because when you turned slightly to the right and saw your bedroom door ajar, the knot in your stomach tightened.

You ran to your bedroom. The air inside smelled different. Of something disturbed. Of hands that weren't yours. And then you saw it.

The drawer with your underwear was slightly open. Not just open—items were in disarray, some unfolded as if they had been selected, touched, examined slowly. As if someone had taken their time. Your favorite set, the black one you always kept at the back, was on top. Missing a piece.

You stepped back, as if someone had punched you in the chest. The humiliation, the rage, the helplessness... all swirled into a storm.

"Seonghwa!" you cried out, your voice breaking. The first time calling him by his name shouldn’t be like this. Shouldn’t be this afraid.

He came immediately. And when he saw the scene, his expression changed completely.

It wasn't fear. It was fury.

The kind of fury born when someone you care about has been violated, touched, exposed.

"Son of a bitch..." he muttered.

And then something made him turn. A shadow. A fleeting movement past the bedroom window. Just a reflection. But enough.

"Stay here!" he ordered, pulling out his phone immediately to alert the unit. He didn't wait for a response. He ran to the door, taking the stairs two at a time.

And you stood frozen in the hallway, unsure whether to run after him or collapse onto the floor.

The night air slashed his face like icy blades, but he didn't feel it. All his focus was on the figure running into the darkness. Tall. Thin. Wearing a black hoodie that seemed to swallow the streetlights.

"Stop! Police!" Seonghwa shouted, his voice thundering through the streets.

But the figure only ran faster.

The chase began with violence. Asphalt underfoot, the flickering lights of the streetlamps, the echo of his own footsteps thudding like deafening heartbeats. The streets were nearly empty, but not silent—a dog barked in the distance, a car alarm blinked, the distant hum of the city never ceased.

Seonghwa turned a corner, his boots squealing against the damp pavement. He was gaining ground. He could feel it. The guy tripped on a stray garbage bag and nearly fell. Seonghwa didn't stop. He followed him into a narrow alley, flanked by tall walls covered in graffiti like scars.

The guy vaulted over a low gate, and Seonghwa followed without hesitation. He landed hard on the other side, muscles screaming from the effort. The guy was still running, never looking back—but something in his movement spoke volumes: he wasn't an amateur. He knew how to disappear. He knew how to become one with the night.

They ran past the backs of industrial buildings. Seonghwa was panting, but he didn't slow down. Rage kept him going. The memory of the violated room, the open drawer, the trembling in your hands—every image fed him.

They reached what looked like a dead end... or so he thought. But the guy seemed to know every hidden path. A broken fence let him slip between two warehouses.

"I've got you, bastard," Seonghwa muttered, leaping after him.

But then, the man veered into an underground pedestrian tunnel. Dark. Narrow. Seonghwa didn't hesitate. He entered the throat of shadows.

The world turned gray and black.

The sound of his footsteps warped along the damp walls. The other man was just a few meters ahead, but his hood moved quickly, ducking and weaving. Seonghwa tried to reach for his phone, but he couldn't take his eyes off the corridor.

The tunnel ended at a small exit to the street... and that's where he lost him.

The figure vanished among a cluster of containers. Seonghwa spun in circles, gasping, eyes scanning.

Nothing.

Only the night.

Only his own breathing—desperate and furious.

He struck the nearest wall with his clenched fist. Pain shot up his arm like an electric jolt. He didn't care. He closed his eyes for a second, frustrated, helpless. He'd escaped again. Again.

The guy was toying with them, like puppets dangling from an invisible string. Like he'd only been there to remind them that he'd never really left.

And now, he was closer than ever.

He came back empty-handed. And with a throat tight with rage. Not because he was tired—though his body felt like lead—but because everything inside him was burning.

Burning with anger, with helplessness, with the kind of fury that makes you want to break your knuckles against the nearest wall just to silence the scream inside.

He crossed the apartment threshold with controlled, almost mechanical steps. The sound of the door closing seemed louder than it was. And then he saw you.

Sitting there, on the floor of your room.

The lights were off, just a faint glow from the street filtering through the window. You looked like a shadow.

Your body was tense. Knees pulled to your chest and eyes fixed on some vague point in the void. Your cheeks were streaked with nearly dried tears, and for a moment, all he could do was stand there, watching you.

The world felt so fragile. Your space, your body, your memories... everything had been violated. And you were there, as if you'd stopped breathing altogether.

He moved closer, slowly, as if his movements might shatter you even more. His eyes took in every inch of the chaos. He didn't know what hurt more— the empty space on the shelf where the trophy used to be, something that wasn't just an object. It was your story. Your effort. What you meant.

Or the thought that those filthy hands had touched something so intimate. Seonghwa swallowed hard. He tasted the metallic tang of fury on his tongue.

"You're not safe here anymore," he said quietly, more to himself than to you.

You blinked. You hadn't noticed him until that moment. Your voice came out in a hoarse, fragile whisper:

"I know."

And you did know. Because the only place where you'd felt safe had been violated. And that hurt more than any threat ever could.

Seonghwa clenched his fists. He forced himself not to touch you—not yet—even though the impulse was overwhelming. He wanted to take you by the shoulders and pull you out of that corner. He wanted to see you breathe without fear. But he knew the only thing you had left was control over your personal space. And even that wasn't intact anymore.

Then your body trembled. You didn't sob loudly. It was a small, almost invisible sob. But Seonghwa felt it like a punch to the chest.

That guy wasn't just stalking you. He was unraveling you. Piece by piece.

"I can't take this anymore..." you said softly, like a confession you didn't want to admit aloud.

Seonghwa held his breath. Closed his eyes for a second.

"What if... I go to my grandfather's? He lives outside the city... in Yangpyeong."

He shook his head with a bitter grimace.

"No," he finally said, voice firm. "If he found a way in here, he'll know how to find you there too. I don't want him following you there. I don't want him hurting your grandfather. I don't want..."

He didn't finish the sentence.

I don't want him to take anything else from you.

A thick silence fell between you. Seonghwa slowly walked toward you. He crouched to your level, watching your trembling hands, your shattered gaze, your body curled in on itself like you were trying to disappear. You stayed quiet. Looking at him. And he saw your eyes begin to fill with tears again. It was the look of someone surrendering to the inevitable.

Then he saw your hands. They were shaking, even though you pressed them tightly to your body.

He took them. Gently. As if he were afraid of hurting you. As if you were made of glass. You felt his thumb brushing over your knuckles, his palm covering yours, tremble against tremble.

He didn't say a word. But he held them tightly. Warmly. With a silent promise he didn't yet know how to fulfill, but he wanted to. Because you weren't just another victim anymore. You weren't just a case.

You were you. And that changed everything.

"You can stay at my place," he said plainly. "At least until we figure something out. Until I find that bastard."

His lips were pressed tight. His breathing held back. His whole body tense, and the way his eyes wouldn't stop scanning your face, searching for signs of what you felt. And what he felt.

You nodded. Because you didn't have the strength to argue. Because you had nowhere else to go. Because, in the middle of all this... it was him who was holding you up.

The ride was silent.

Your world was dimmed. You clung to your backpack as if doing so could anchor you to some faint sense of safety. You carried the essentials: a change of clothes, your documents, your phone, and not much else. You didn't want to think about what you were leaving behind. You couldn't. It all hurt too much.

The streets passed by in blurred smudges, the orange glow of streetlights reflecting on the car window. You didn't speak. Neither did Seonghwa. But his silence wasn't indifference—it was restraint. And that, in some way, gave you room to breathe.

When you finally arrived, the building wasn't what you had expected. It wasn't elegant or modern, but it was clean, quiet... safe.

You rode the elevator in shared silence. And when the doors opened, he broke the calm with a low voice. "This floor is directly connected to the station," he glanced sideways at you. "There are cameras throughout the building, constant surveillance. I'm not the only detective living here."

The hallway was softly lit, white.

"Hongjoong— Detective Kim lives down the hall," he added while searching for the keys. "He's on double shift this week, so you won't see him much. He's... quiet." The door opened with a soft click.

It was the opposite of you. A silent space. No decorations. No photos. No colors. Gray walls, functional furniture. Everything neat, orderly... impersonal.

Seonghwa lived as if he were always about to leave.

You stood there for a few seconds, as if unsure whether you belonged. You felt out of place. Like the world had spun too fast and you didn't know where to fit anymore.

"I can sleep here," he said, nodding toward the couch. "It's not the first time I've done it. You can use my room. It's clean. It has a lock."

"You don't have to do that..."

"I want to." His voice was firm in a different way—not commanding, but resolute. "I'll be here, in the living room," he added. "I have to write tonight's report. Your apartment is now officially under investigation. We're going to comb through every corner in case he left something behind. We'll catch him. I promise."

You felt a knot form in your throat. You clutched the backpack to your chest and nodded silently. You didn't say "thank you." The word felt too small for everything he was doing for you.

You walked to his room with dragging steps, and when you closed the door behind you, you finally allowed yourself to breathe. The bed smelled like Seonghwa's cologne. The blanket was neatly spread. There was nothing personal in sight. Everything in that space spoke of someone who never let their guard down.

You sat on the edge of the bed, your backpack still packed, hands resting in your lap and your eyes fixed on the carpet.

You didn't want to think. You lay on your side. You didn't close your eyes.

And in the other room, you knew he was still there. That he wasn't going to sleep. That he was wrestling with his own helplessness.

That certainty was enough for one single tear to escape you.

Sleep was impossible.

You tossed and turned in the sheets, legs restless, your mind flooded with images and sensations you didn't know how to sort.

The apartment's silence was absolute, interrupted only by the occasional hum of the refrigerator or the soft creak of wood reacting to the temperature shift.

Your body was exhausted, but your mind stayed alert. Too alert.

It was as if the walls of the room were slowly closing in, as if that promised safety was only an illusion you couldn't quite grasp. You knew you were safe there. You knew. But you didn't feel it.

You got up quietly, barefoot. The blanket dropped to your feet.

The door opened without a sound, and when you peeked out, you saw him.

Seonghwa, on the couch, a folded blanket beside him that he hadn't touched. Sitting, slightly hunched forward, his laptop opened in front of him. There were papers scattered across the low table, and a steaming mug that must have gone cold by now.

The desk lamp cast light on his profile. Furrowed brow. Tense jaw. Dark circles under his eyes. He was so focused he didn't notice you were there.

You didn't want to interrupt him. But the silence... weighed on you.

"I can't sleep," you whispered.

He looked up immediately, not surprised, as if he'd been expecting you.

"I figured."

He gently closed the laptop and moved aside on the couch, inviting you to sit. You approached slowly, like someone stepping into sacred ground, and sank into the opposite end, hugging your knees.

There were a few seconds of silence.

"Are you okay?" he asked. It wasn't a superficial question.

"No," you whispered. "I'm not."

Seonghwa didn't respond right away. He just looked at you. And for the first time, he didn't try to fill the void with explanations or solutions. He was simply there.

"It all started on the ice," you murmured after a while, your voice breaking. "That's where he saw me for the first time. Where he chose me. And now... I can't be there without feeling like he's watching from some corner."

His gaze softened.

"We'll take that away from him," he said gently. "That power he has over you. We're going to break it."

His words hurt—because part of you wanted to believe them. And another... was shattered.

"Today, when I saw the drawer open... When I realized he touched my things. That he took something of mine... something that means so much... I felt like I have nothing left that's truly mine. Nothing. No privacy, no peace, no control. Like I'm just... a story to him."

Seonghwa looked at you, and for a moment, the pain in his eyes mirrored your own.

"I swear I won't stop until I find him."

You didn't say anything. You just looked at him. And it was there, in the middle of insomnia, in the midst of chaos, where something else began to take root.

Seonghwa turned on a warmer light, lowered the brightness of his laptop, and began telling you details about the case—not the worst ones, not the most painful, but enough to give your mind something else to hold on to.

And before you knew it, your head was resting on the arm of the couch. Your eyes drifted shut. And you fell asleep to the sound of his voice.

Seonghwa fell silent when he noticed. He gently laid a blanket over your shoulders without a sound, and stayed there, with you, without reopening his laptop.

Because that night, for the first time, fear wasn't the only thing that united you.

The days that followed felt strange.

Not exactly calm—there was still tension in the air, like the low hum of a warning siren you couldn’t switch off—but quieter, somehow. Easier to breathe. As if the storm had paused mid-rage, its thunder still echoing somewhere in the distance, but for the moment, the rain had stopped falling. You moved like someone underwater—every gesture a little heavier, a little slower. Your routine stripped itself down to the bare essentials: sleep, eat, exist. Nothing more, nothing less. The bag with your few belongings remained by Seonghwa’s bedroom door, untouched, a quiet reminder that part of you hadn’t fully arrived. Part of you was still holding on to the idea that at any moment, you might leave again.

Seonghwa worked long hours. Sometimes you woke up and he was already gone, the lingering scent of coffee and cologne in the kitchen the only proof he had been there at all. Other times, he’d come back late, footsteps soft, jacket damp with night air. Often you’d find him planted in the living room, brow furrowed, shoulders tense, going through reports or listening to audio files with his headphones on. He lived like a man trying to outpace something—chasing shadows or running from them, you couldn’t always tell.

And yet, even within that quiet chaos, you shared moments.

Moments so heartbreakingly ordinary that they made your chest ache with how badly you needed them. A silent breakfast, where he poured your coffee just the way you liked it and you made him toast, passing the butter without asking. A long, quiet afternoon where he helped you stretch on the living room floor, guiding your limbs with patience, never once mentioning skating. It wasn’t about routines or recovery—it was about reminding your body how it felt to simply move, to be touched without fear.

There was the way he always left the blanket neatly folded on the couch before heading to bed, though he never used it himself. Maybe because part of him hoped you would. Maybe because he wanted you to know you had a choice, a space that was yours without asking.

There was the sound of his voice drifting from the kitchen when he called Hongjoong, and you, standing just around the hallway corner, listened without meaning to. There was nothing special in the words exchanged—but in the tone, in the warmth of domesticity, you felt something you hadn’t felt in a long time. A home. Not a place of defense or preparation or paranoia—but a home.

There were no conversations about emotions. No confessions. No trembling declarations in the middle of the night.

But there were long glances from across the hallway, quiet pauses that filled entire rooms. There were dishes washed together in companionable silence. And there was one night—so trivial and so monumental—when you both reached for a fallen spoon at the same time. Your fingers brushed. You froze. So did he. And then the moment passed, suspended in the air like a held breath. Neither of you mentioned it.

Until one night, over two simple plates of rice and kimchi, you finally said it.

"I'm not going to Nationals this year."

The words shattered in the room like glass hitting the floor. No warning. No lead-up. Just impact.

Seonghwa didn’t react right away. He simply set his chopsticks down, gently, deliberately, as if afraid anything more abrupt might break something. But when he looked at you, you knew it wasn’t gentleness he felt.

"Is that what you want?" he asked.

You nodded, your throat tightening around the truth.

"The ice..." you began, voice so low it barely belonged to you, "it's not the same anymore. That’s where he saw me. Where he became obsessed. And now, every time I imagine stepping onto it, I feel his eyes on the back of my neck. I can't... I don’t want that sacred place to hurt too."

Seonghwa didn’t interrupt. He didn’t try to fix it. He just listened.

"My grandfather..." your voice cracked, and you paused to breathe through it, "he always dreamed of seeing me win the internationals. That’s the one I want to bring to him. That’s the dream I still hold. But I can’t do it now. Not with him out there. Not with everything so fragile, like it might collapse with one wrong step."

You looked down at your half-eaten food.

"Maybe next year. If things get better. Maybe..."

It wasn’t a decision. Not really. It was more like a temporary surrender, one that still felt like a wound. An open one, raw and unresolved.

Seonghwa didn’t try to reassure you. He didn’t offer empty promises or hollow encouragement. He just looked at you, steady and silent, as if trying to shoulder the weight of your heart through sheer presence alone.

The next day, it was public.

"The rising star of figure skating temporarily steps away from the road to Nationals." Through close sources, it’s been confirmed that the athlete has decided not to compete this year. Although it’s not a definitive retirement, her absence leaves a mark on the competition.

You read it together on the screen of his laptop. The cursor blinked at the bottom like it was waiting for a response neither of you would give.

You didn’t say anything. Neither did he.

But somewhere else, in the darkened quiet of a cluttered room, the stalker read it too.

And something in him broke.

Because ever since Seonghwa had entered your life, ever since he started building something steady where there used to be chaos, the perfect fantasy—the delusion he had nurtured—was falling apart. And he couldn’t let that continue.

“I told you not to stop skating. You can’t do that. You’re a star. My star. How can you leave me like this? That bastard... he’s pulling us apart, don’t you see? He doesn’t want you near me.”

The days with you were slipping through his fingers like fine grains of time—unnoticed in the moment, but mourned once lost. And though he never spoke it aloud, never dared let the weight of the words hang in the air between you, Seonghwa looked at you the way someone looks at something they’re afraid of losing. His gaze lingered too long sometimes, tracing the lines of your face, the gentle curve of your shoulder, the soft rhythm of your breath—memorizing. Holding on. As if your presence might dissolve with the morning light.

The tension in the apartment had shifted. It wasn’t gone. But it had taken on a new shape—no longer sharp, no longer fear laced with adrenaline and shadows. It was quieter now, threaded with something warmer, something unspoken that bloomed in the silence between moments. In the way he sought your eyes across a room. In the way your steps softened when you walked past him. In the hush that filled the space after laughter, neither of you quite knowing what to say next.

You both felt it. That stillness that didn’t come from fear. That warmth that didn’t demand anything. The strange comfort of safety that you were slowly learning to trust.

“Do you want to come with me today?” he asked one morning. The words felt casual, but something in his voice—gentle, almost hesitant—made you look up from where you were picking up your keys.

You nodded before you could think about it. You didn’t want to stay behind. Not in that quiet apartment where the walls whispered memories, where your thoughts could turn on you in seconds. And more than that—you didn’t want to feel far from him.

You didn’t ask where you were going.

You just got into the car, and let the hum of the engine and the city’s soft static be your lullaby. The buildings faded behind you, replaced by stretches of gray and green and road. The further you went, the more your body surrendered to the stillness, and your eyes—though they tried to stay open—gave in.

You slept. Without planning to. Without permission. And that, in itself, felt like a kind of trust.

When the car finally stopped, it was the sudden absence of motion that woke you. The silence wrapped around you gently, and you blinked slowly, the light pouring in through the windshield painting your skin in pale gold. You sat up, sleep still clinging to your bones, and turned your head.

And then you saw it.

An ice rink. Small. Secluded. Tucked into the edge of a quiet landscape like a forgotten memory.

You knew this place. Not exactly—but deeply. The kind of place that looked like a hundred others you had trained in. But it was more than recognition. It was the ache in your chest. The breath that caught. The sting behind your eyes.

“What...?” Your voice cracked as it left your throat. “What are we doing here?”

Seonghwa unfastened his seatbelt and turned toward you, calm and steady, as if he had carefully built every part of himself for this moment. His eyes were soft—no longer the sharp eyes of a detective. Just a man, looking at you with all the care in the world.

“I want you to feel free,” he said. “To be yourself. Even if just for a little while.”

You stared at him, words tangled behind your lips, caught in that place between gratitude and grief.

“What if he…?” you started to ask, the fear flickering back like a shadow.

“He won’t know,” Seonghwa said, firm but gentle. “We’re far. No one followed us. We have time. Just... trust me.”

And somehow, you did. Maybe because his voice held that same certainty it always did when you were scared. Maybe because his gaze held no doubt. Just quiet faith. Faith in you.

You stepped out of the car, the cold air biting at your skin. Your shoes crunched against the frozen ground, and the sight in front of you took your breath. The rink—empty, glowing under string lights like stars fallen from the sky—waited. As if time itself had been holding its breath.

“I didn’t bring my gear,” you murmured.

Seonghwa didn’t miss a beat. “It’s in the trunk.”

You turned, eyes wide, as he opened it. And there it was. Your skates. Your coat. Even your backpack, the one you always used for training. The knot in your throat tightened. He had planned this. Every detail. For you. Just to see you happy.

Your heart stuttered.

The inside of the rink was colder, but it was a cold you welcomed. A cold that belonged. The lights above made the ice gleam like glass, and you sat on the bench, breath shaky, hands trembling as they laced your skates with a muscle memory you thought you’d buried. The blades shimmered beneath your fingers.

And then, you stood.

One breath.

Another.

And stepped onto the ice.

At first, your legs protested. Your muscles tensed. But then—something clicked. The rhythm returned, slow and steady. The ice welcomed you back like an old friend.

You glided.

One turn. Another.

The air kissed your face.

Your arms moved without thought. Your hair caught the wind. Your body remembered the poetry—the language only you spoke. The one that didn’t need words.

And then you saw him.

Seonghwa. Skates on. Both hands clinging to the rail. A look of sheer uncertainty on his face. It was ridiculous. And precious.

“What are you doing?” you called, laughing as you approached him.

“I’m risking my physical integrity for you,” he replied, so serious you couldn’t help but laugh again—this time with your whole chest.

“Who made you do this?”

“Your smile.”

The air caught in your lungs. The words hit somewhere deep. You looked at him. Really looked.

“I wanted to be with you,” he said softly.

You offered him your hands. He hesitated. Then placed his in yours.

His fingers were cold. Yours curled around them anyway.

“Put your weight here,” you murmured, guiding his palms to your waist. “Let go. Trust the momentum.”

And he did.

He stumbled.

You steadied him.

You glided.

He followed.

Step by uncertain step, you led him. You were elegance. He was effort. But together... you were something else. Something balanced. Something honest.

You fell into laughter again. Into each other.

That rink—tucked in the middle of nowhere—became sacred. Not because of the ice. Not because of the movement.

But because, beside him, for the first time in what felt like forever, you felt like you belonged to yourself again.

You were alive.

And you were in love with Park Seonghwa.

The rain had deepened by nightfall. No longer the gentle tapping of earlier, but a steady, rhythmic pulse against the windows, like a second heartbeat echoing through the apartment. It blurred the outside world into watercolor—soft streaks of yellow and red lights bleeding into each other, distant car horns muffled by the glass. Inside, the stillness reigned. The lamps remained off. Only the dim spill of the city crept in, laying delicate shadows across the floor. The apartment smelled faintly of rain-dampened concrete and the trace of something warm from earlier—tea, maybe, or the scent of his cologne clinging to the cushions.

You sat together on the couch—too close to be casual, too far to be lovers. Your knee brushed his once, then again, as if by accident. But neither of you moved away. His hands were clasped, knuckles pale, gaze cast forward like he was trying to stop himself from looking at you. You had your legs tucked under, fingers gently fiddling with the hem of your sleeve. Every breath you took felt tethered to his, like the air itself had narrowed to fit only the space between you.

“Thank you for today,” you said, voice barely louder than the rain. You didn’t look at him when you said it, afraid that if you did, your chest would give away just how much it had meant. “It was…”

“Nice,” he finished, voice rough and low, like the words had scraped their way out of him. He tilted his head just slightly toward you. “With you, everything feels nice.”

You exhaled, caught off guard by the way your heart reacted—immediate, uncontrollable. A quiet laugh slipped from you, uncertain and breathy. “You shouldn’t say things like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’ll believe them.”

And then—he looked at you. Really looked. The turn of his head felt like a tide shifting, and when his eyes met yours, they pulled you under. They weren’t sharp like a detective’s, not then. They were dark, yes—but warm. Soft. As if they'd already memorized the shape of your face and still wanted to keep tracing it, just to be sure.

“Believe them,” he said.

That’s when the world held its breath. The sound of rain dulled. The air thickened, electric with something unspoken. You didn’t realize how close you’d leaned until you felt the brush of his breath across your cheek. His hand came up slowly, reverently, like he was reaching for something sacred. The backs of his fingers skimmed your skin—featherlight, trembling—and your eyes fluttered closed as your throat tightened with everything you couldn't say.

“Can I…?” His whisper was fragile. Not a question of desire, but permission.

You didn’t answer with words. You just tilted your face up to his, and closed the space.

The kiss was barely a kiss at first—just the whisper of his lips against yours. It tasted of patience, of hesitation, of the unbearable weight of longing. He kissed you like you might disappear if he moved too fast. Like your mouth was a secret he’d waited years to learn.

You pressed closer, your fingers finding the fabric of his shirt, clutching it like an anchor. And he made a sound—soft and raw—as his other hand rose to cradle the back of your neck, threading into your hair. He deepened the kiss, slow and steady, with a hunger he tried to rein in and couldn’t. His lips moved against yours with the kind of intention that makes the world drop away. You forgot the rain. The room. Your own name.

When your lips parted, he didn’t pull back. His forehead leaned into yours, breath catching. “What are you doing to me…?” he whispered, eyes still closed like he didn’t trust them not to betray too much.

You smiled, real and a little shy, your heart hammering like a secret you’d just confessed. “The same thing you’re doing to me.”

And when you kissed again, it was no longer tentative. It was certain. A little desperate. The air around you buzzed with something electric. His mouth moved with more need, more trust. His tongue brushed yours, and the sound you made—soft, surprised—was met with a quiet groan from him. His hand gripped your waist. Your hands were in his hair now, feeling the damp strands between your fingers. He melted into you, as if this was the only place he’d ever wanted to be.

You were both breathless when you parted, your noses brushing. Neither of you spoke. Not yet. But your eyes said it all.

Then, quietly, you said it: “Sleep in the room tonight.”

His lips curved into a smile. No teasing, no hesitation—just softness. He nodded, and gently took your hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The walk to your bedroom was wordless, quiet save for the rain. Something sacred passed between you in that stillness. When he opened the door, you slipped beneath the covers, heart racing in your chest. He walked around the bed, pausing before slipping in on the other side. He faced you, eyes searching your face in the dark.

“Can I…?” he asked again, voice like a hush.

You moved toward him. That was your answer.

His arms came around you, one strong arm wrapping your waist, the other threading gently beneath your neck. He pulled you in, your back against his chest, your bodies slotting together like puzzle pieces meant to fit. You exhaled, and so did he. His breath tickled your neck.

“This is good,” he murmured. “This puts me at ease.”

His hand rested against your stomach, warm and grounding. And when he kissed your temple, it wasn’t just affection—it was gratitude. Worship. A promise, whispered without words.

“Good night, love.”

“Good night, Hwa.”

Outside, the rain kept falling. But inside that room, time slowed. The air wrapped around you like his arms had. There was no fear. No distance. Just breath syncing breath, heartbeat syncing heartbeat. You didn’t flinch when sleep came.

Because he was there. Because you weren’t afraid. Because for the first time in a long, long time— You were home.

Everything had changed since that night. Since the moment you and Seonghwa kissed under the dim light of the living room, with emotions running high and words trembling on your lips. After so many weeks of uncertainty, of loaded silences and glances overflowing with things left unsaid, you had finally surrendered to each other. And since then, life had been different.

Waking up with his arms wrapped around your waist, his warm breath on your neck, his fingers reaching for yours even in sleep... Every moment with him felt stolen from a parallel world where everything was softer, safer, more real. In the mornings, you shared coffee and lazy kisses. At night, you shared love in whispers and laughter, as if the rest of the world didn't exist. It was like living inside a protective bubble, built with caresses and unspoken promises.

Your side of the bed had a different blanket, a small scented candle on the nightstand, which Seonghwa said smelled like you. There were moments of passion, kisses that stole touches and touches that made you forget even your own name... but there was also love in the little things: in how he looked at you when you were focused on cooking, in how his fingers stroked your hair without saying a word, in how he seemed to read every one of your emotions without you having to speak.

But peace, as always, was fleeting.

That night, you had decided to stay home. The rain pounded against the windows persistently, as if the sky was trying to slip through some crack in the city to warn you that it was about to break. You wrapped yourself in Seonghwa's hoodie, the one you shamelessly stole and he didn't even bother to reclaim anymore. The scent of him—wood, bitter coffee, and something warm you couldn't name—kept you company as you leafed through a book you barely read, more attentive to the clock than to the words.

Before leaving, Seonghwa had leaned over you, one hand on your cheek.

"Don't stay up too late. I'm just a phone call away," he said, kissing your forehead like a promise.

At the station, the clock read 10:46 p.m. when the door to his office creaked open. Seonghwa looked up from his desk. In front of him, Hongjoong stood pale-faced, with an envelope in his hands.

"Hwa... this came. It has your name on it."

It was a white envelope. No sender. Sealed. Seonghwa felt a sharp sting shoot through the base of his neck. He took it without saying a word and opened it carefully. Inside: a USB drive and a handwritten note.

"I thought you might like to see this, detective. Since you're as interested in her as I am."

Seonghwa's heart skipped a beat, barely perceptible. He connected the device to the monitor without a word, his fingers suddenly cold on the keyboard. The file took a few seconds to open. A video, untitled. No sound. The image trembled slightly at first. It was a recording made from a distance, with a hidden camera. And there you were. Sitting on a bench in front of a café. Cloudy day. White scarf around your neck, the one he had given you on a winter afternoon when you were shivering and pretending not to.

The lens zoomed in. Then another cut. You walking. You buying something at a convenience store. Entering the subway. Entering your home. Recordings made in different places, on different days. Some recognizable. Others older. The video showed them one after another, unhurried, as if documenting a carefully observed routine.

And then, in the reflection of a store window, for just a second, Seonghwa saw a face. Not entirely clear, but enough to stir something icy in his chest.

The video changed. Another file. This time, there was audio. The voice that came through was male. Young. Unnervingly soft.

"She was so beautiful that day..." said a male voice, almost tender. Seonghwa felt his stomach tighten. "She skated like she was flying. You know what I thought when I saw her for the first time? That the gods were sending her to me. For me. So I could protect her. So I could love her. But you... you came to ruin it all, detective Park."

That voice...

He rewound the video. Paused. Enhanced. The face again. Brown hair. Glasses...

The assistant coach from your first nationals. The one who always seemed in the background. The one who congratulated you with a hug too long for his position. The one you said you had forgotten over the years.

"He was there... all this time..."

Seonghwa stood up abruptly. His chair fell back. He grabbed his coat. He didn't even ask for backup. "If he's nearby... if he's sent this... then she's probably in danger. Now."

A movie played in the background, but your eyes followed none of it. Sometimes love feels like peace, and other times, like a sweet knot in your chest that won't let you think of anything else. You were thinking of him—of Seonghwa—of the way he touched your face like you were made of glass, of how he kissed you with the care of someone who finally understood what it meant to belong to another heart.

You had felt broken for so long. But with him... the pieces were starting to take shape again.

You stood to turn off the television and the lights, leaving only the corner lamp on. Its warm light painted dancing shadows across the walls, moving with every gust of wind that slipped through the cracks.

Something changed.

It was a tiny sound. A creak. The kind of noise a house makes as it settles... except this one didn't come from the roof or the walls. It came from the hallway. From inside.

"Hwa?" you called, hesitantly, just in case. Because sometimes he came home unannounced. "Babe, did you forget your snacks again? I left them next to..." but you looked at the kitchen counter, and the snacks you had picked out for Seonghwa weren't there.

You turned slowly, as if your body knew something your mind still refused to accept. And when you saw him—when his figure emerged from the shadows—the world stopped spinning for a whole second.

He was standing by the doorway, as if he'd been there for hours. As if he'd been watching you since Seonghwa left the house. His face was almost exactly as you remembered. Minjae... the ex-assistant of your coach. The one who was always behind your trainer, harmless... almost invisible. The one who could disappear into any crowd... until he didn't. Years had passed since you last saw him, since your first nationals—the same ones from the trophy the stalker—Minjae had stolen. Your heart raced. Breathing became difficult. Your mind slipped in and out of denial. Because it couldn't be. Not him.

"It's been a long time," he said with a calm voice, too calm, laced with malice that made you immediately step back.

"What are you doing here?" you managed to say, your throat dry, hands shaking.

He took a step forward, unfazed by your tone. "You're asking the wrong question, love," he answered with a twisted smile. "You shouldn't ask what I'm doing here... but why it took me so long to come."

His voice was soft, almost affectionate, and that made it all the more horrifying. Like a lover returning from a long journey, instead of the man who had been hiding behind every one of your fears these past months. You tried to move, but your body wouldn't respond as quickly as you needed. Your skin bristled. Your stomach turned. Your instincts screamed at you to run, but fear had roots, and they had grown deep into your feet.

"No... I don't understand. How did you get in?" you asked, more to buy time than to get an answer.

"Did you really think this security system would stop me?" he laughed softly, humorless. "I've entered your world long before this. I entered when no one else saw you. When you cried in secret after failing to rank. When you trained until you bled. When your fingers cracked from the cold and you kept going anyway. I saw you. I was there. Always."

His devotion made you sick. His words were blades, growing sharper, more intimate. He didn't speak like a stranger, but like someone who had been secretly living with you for years.

"You're sick," you murmured, taking another step back. Your eyes scanned the room, searching for your phone. You had to call Seonghwa, had to ask for help.

"Don't say that, my love," he whispered. "True love isn't learned. It's revealed. And you revealed it to me, without even realizing. Every movement you made on the ice was a poem to me. Did you know that? Did you know the gods sent you to me? You are a miracle. An answer. My destiny."

"You have no right..." you started, but he interrupted you, his voice now tinged with restrained rage.

"And that damn detective does? He has the right to touch you, to kiss you, to sleep with you like he knows you?" his face twisted, fists clenched. "You don't get it, do you? He doesn't know you like I do. He hasn't seen everything I've seen in you. I love you like one loves the sacred. With faith. With sacrifice. I've waited. I've endured. I've watched you drift away... forget me– but I never stopped loving you!"

The air in the room was dense, as if every word filled your lungs with poison. Sweat ran down your back. The trembling wasn't just in your hands anymore, but in your legs, your lips, your voice. You wanted to run, but he lunged. He grabbed you by the wrist with a strength you didn't expect, his fingers digging into your skin with terrifying determination.

"Let me go!" you screamed, desperate.

"NO!" he shouted, eyes wild. "Not until you hear me. Not until you feel me. I love you!"

"You're crazy!" you struggled.

"I'm in love! And it hurts! You don't know what it's like to truly love! Because if you did, you wouldn't look at me with such disgust!"

"Because you scare me!" you managed to break free with a yank, stumbling backward. Your legs hit the dining table, knocking over a candle. The thud was sharp, and for a moment you thought that would be enough to make him back off. But no. He was still there, looking at you with sick, pleading eyes.

"You don't have to be afraid of me... I would never hurt you. Just..." his voice dropped, broken, "just let me stay. Just one night. Just look at me. Like you did when you were alone, when you had no one. I was that 'no one' for years. And still I loved you. I still did everything for you."

"Leave me alone."

"Don't throw me out!" he shouted, stepping toward you violently. "Don't throw me out again! I can't go back out there knowing you're here, in this house, with him!"

Your chest rose and fell rapidly. You felt like you were going to faint at any moment. Your hands groped blindly, and finally your fingers brushed your phone, lying between the couch cushions. You didn't make any sudden moves. You just kept looking at him, weighing each word.

He took a step. Then another. As if your fear didn't exist. As if it were part of the game. As if it excited him.

"Don't come any closer," you repeated, your voice now firmer, but also more frightened. "This isn't love!"

And his face... changed. It tensed. The smile disappeared, as if someone had switched off the light inside him. The muscles in his jaw clenched. The light in his eyes turned into something dark, threatening.

"It's not love?" he repeated in a low, hoarse voice. "It's not love to spend sleepless nights watching every one of your performances? To keep every ticket from where you competed? Isn't it love to carve your name into my skin because you're already etched into my soul?"

He rolled up his right sleeve, and there, with jagged lines and old scars... was your name.

Tattooed. With a knife or blade.

Your stomach churned. You wanted to vomit. You wanted to cry. You wanted to disappear.

"I love you so much it... hurts," he said, taking another step toward you. "And you're hurting me now. I don't understand why. You were mine... before him."

His eyes burned at the mention of Seonghwa.

"He stole you," he spat. "He contaminated you. But I can still clean you. You can still be mine again."

"I never was. Never." Your words came out between sobs, through the trembling of your jaw and the grip you had on your phone. "I never loved you! I never wanted this!"

That made him snap. He punched the wall with a closed fist, so hard the frame shook. You screamed, curling into the corner. Adrenaline boiled in your veins, but your body trembled like a leaf swept by the wind.

"Don't say that!" he roared, eyes filling with tears. "You don't know what you're saying. You don't know how much I've done for you!"

And suddenly, in a swift movement, he got too close. His hand clamped around your wrist with overwhelming force and the phone slipped from your grip. You screamed, struggling, and his hot breath hit your face.

You didn't know how, but the tears began to fall. It wasn't an outburst. It was that kind of crying that drips silently, like your body trying to warn you that everything inside you is breaking. The air was still poisoned. His closeness suffocating.

"Don't cry..." he murmured, wiping your cheek with terrifying tenderness. "I don't like seeing you like this. Not when I've given you so much. Everything. All you have to do is say you'll stay with me. Just that, (Y/N):"

Your voice came out torn.

"Never."

The silence that followed was thick, like a pause before collapse. His hand, which had been trembling before, hardened. The smile vanished. And in its place settled a blank expression. Dry. Lethal.

"Then you leave me no choice," he whispered, as if talking to himself.

He took a step back. Slowly. As if weighing a punishment. And then, with a calm that chilled more than any scream, he pulled something from his pocket that gleamed under the dim hallway light.

A small blade.

Light. Precise. Cold.

"You don't understand..." he said as he spun it between his fingers with sickening skill. "But if you can't be mine... you'll be no one's. And certainly not his."

Your legs wanted to move. Run. Scream. Something. But fear had already placed invisible chains around your ankles. It was like being trapped in a lucid nightmare: you could see every detail, but you couldn't wake up.

"Do you know what I thought, that time I saw you skating with him in the stands?" he continued, his voice dropping even lower, brushing a whisper. "I thought about how your hands would look covered in blood. Not from hate. No..." he shook his head gently. "From art. Because everything you touch is art. Even pain could be... if it's mine."

Then he raised the weapon and pressed it gently to his own cheek, barely cutting the skin. A thin red line appeared and began to slide down his face.

You wanted to vomit. You felt bile rise to your throat and your eyes kept spilling tears. You couldn't believe what you were seeing; you couldn't fully accept that the Minjae you had known years ago was the same sick man who seemed to have lost his mind.

"Look what I'm capable of doing for you. Look how far I'm willing to go. And if that's not love... then love is dead."

You backed up until you hit the doorframe. The wood creaked. Your fingers searched for something —anything— to defend yourself with. He noticed. His gaze changed.

"Don't run. Don't make me hurt you. I don't want to. But I can. You know that, right?" he took another step toward you. "Because if you don't come with me now, (Y/N)... he'll be the first. I'll kill him. I'll make him suffer. And then I'll take you far away. No one will know anything. You'll be mine. Like it was meant to be from the start."

Your heart pounded like a drum on the verge of breaking. Everything was too fast, too slow at the same time. And then...

A bang.

Not on your body. On the door.

A dry crack. The sound of a lock being forced.

And then a voice. Deep. Sharp. Full of fury.

The door burst open with a violence that shook the walls. The sound was like a gunshot, tearing through the dense air, shattering the sickening bubble you were trapped in.

"(Y/N)!"

Seonghwa's voice. Firm, furious. Alive. Your head turned toward the sound and, for a moment, it was as if time had stopped. He was there, soaked by the rain, eyes ablaze, chest heaving. In his eyes, the promise that it was all over. That you had been found. But it wasn't that simple. Minjae took a step back, startled, but not defeated. His knife gleamed between his fingers. His breathing quickened. And then, something changed in his face. Like a mask falling. Fear melted into rage. Into jealousy. Into madness. "You..." he spat. "You're the problem. You always have been." "Drop the weapon!" Seonghwa ordered, aiming straight at his chest. "You're not going to touch her. Not now, not ever again." "You don't understand anything, do you? She's mine! MINE!" he shouted, his voice cracking, almost childish, like a kid losing his favorite toy. "She doesn't belong to anyone. Least of all someone sick like you." "She chose me first!" he yelled, throwing the knife forcefully to the side. It hit the wall with a metallic clang, but he was already charging at Seonghwa, fists clenched, with animal fury. You screamed. It was like watching two opposing forces collide at the center of a ruined world. Seonghwa didn't hesitate and landed a direct punch to the stomach that made Minjae double over for a second. But he writhed like a cornered beast and hit Seonghwa's jaw with a dry punch. The force pushed him back. Blood. From Seonghwa's lip. From Minjae's brow. "YOU CORRUPTED HER!" Minjae shouted as he threw another punch. "You put ideas in her head! She loved me before you!" "You don't know what love is!" Seonghwa roared, grabbing him by the collar, slamming him against the wall. The plaster cracked. "You suffocated her! You stole her peace, her safety, her dreams!" "I saved her! I protected her! No one else saw her like I did..." "You followed her! You stalked her! YOU TORTURED HER!" You could only watch. Legs trembling, body pressed against the wall, wanting to scream but voiceless. It was too much. Watching them fight. Watching Seonghwa bleed for you. The silence lasted only a second. But it was a long second, dense, like a bottomless pit where your senses sank. Seonghwa and Minjae wrestled in the center of the apartment—the same one where you'd slept last night, where you'd cooked, where you'd tried to reclaim some normalcy—and now it looked like a battlefield. Papers, picture frames, shards of glass. A lamp on the floor. Blood beginning to stain the wood. Your ears rang. Your heart pounded against your ribs in a frantic rhythm. "LET ME GO!" Minjae screamed, desperate, scratching Seonghwa's face with his nails, as if that could give him an advantage. Seonghwa growled, but didn't loosen his grip. He had him pinned against the wall, fingers digging into his wet jacket. "I won't let you touch her ever again!" "You don't get to decide that!" Minjae spat. "YOU don't know what we shared! She was happy before you! HAPPY!" "You don't know what happiness is! What you did wasn't love, it was obsession, it was control!" Minjae laughed. A broken, coarse, sinister laugh. "If you hadn't shown up in our lives... we'd still be together." Your legs gave out. "No..." you murmured, barely audible. "That's not true..."

"SAY IT!" Minjae shouted, turning his face toward you, panting, soaked, pupils dilated.

"Say it! Tell me you didn't think of me when you skated. Of your admirer... Tell me you didn't read my words over and over. TELL ME YOU DIDN'T KEEP THEM!"

Your lips parted, but no sound came.

Only tears.

And that vacant look that gave you away: you were broken.

"LOOK AT HER!" Seonghwa roared. "LOOK AT HER AND SEE WHAT YOU'VE DONE!"

But Minjae wasn't listening. He wasn't reasoning. He was a swarm of twisted emotions: nostalgia, rage, jealousy, delusion. And in that moment, you felt it. He wasn't a person.

He was a loose threat.

Then, the unexpected.

Minjae let out a very low laugh. Something changed. Not his face—that was still contorted—but his energy. As if a terrible idea had just crossed his mind.

"You know..." he murmured, looking around, "if she can't be mine, she won't be yours either."

Seonghwa pushed him, but Minjae staggered toward the kitchen, limping. Something flickered in his eyes. Something... dangerous.

You could barely process it.

But when you saw him open a drawer quickly, you knew it wasn't just an attempt to escape.

"No!" you shouted. "No, please!"

Seonghwa ran after him, but it was already too late. Minjae had grabbed something. Not a knife… A lighter.

And a shattered bottle with alcohol spilled on the floor.

"You're not thinking..." Seonghwa froze. "Don't you dare."

"You think I'm going alone?" Minjae hissed, with terrifying calm. "This place... this damn place you built together... I'm going to watch it burn. And you with it."

The smell of alcohol was already in the air.

Your vision blurred. Fear became something absolute, almost unreal. Everything seemed distant, as if you were watching your own end from outside your body.

"Minjae," you stammered. "Stop. You don't have to do this. We can... we can talk."

"Talk?! Too late for that! You ignored me. You replaced me. And you..." he pointed at Seonghwa, with a deranged smile. "You ruined everything."

Then, he raised the lighter. The dry click of the mechanism echoed like a gunshot.

Once, twice, three times.

And the flame appeared.

It was a second. Just one second.

But Seonghwa couldn't allow it.

With lightning speed, he ducked, rolled across the floor, grabbed his gun—the one he'd dropped earlier for safety—and aimed.

"NO!" you screamed, but it was already too late.

Bang.

The shot echoed endlessly in your ears. The flame died before it touched the floor. The lighter fell, bouncing against the tiles.

And Minjae…

Dropped to his knees.

Then backward.

A dark flower bloomed on his chest.

Silence.

A murderous silence.

A silence like a grave.

Your knees buckled. You collapsed to the floor, not feeling the impact. Eyes locked on his lifeless body. You didn't cry. Didn't scream. You couldn't.

You just wanted it all to end. For someone to turn the world off.

Seonghwa lowered the weapon slowly. His hands trembled. His face was drenched in sweat and blood.

He didn't move for long seconds. And then, he took a step toward you. Then another.

The gun still hung from his hand, but his gaze was no longer on Minjae, only on you. Just you.

"(Y/N)... baby" his voice was barely a whisper, broken by the effort, by the rage still burning in his chest, by the fear that hadn't left his skin. "Are you hurt? Are you okay?"

You didn't know how to respond. The words had hidden somewhere deep in your body. Everything hurt. Everything shook. The air was heavy, like you had to swallow the past just to breathe.

Seonghwa approached slowly, as if afraid of scaring you more, as if aware that any sudden movement could break you.

He knelt in front of you.

"I'm here," he said softly, locking eyes with yours. "It's over. I swear, it's over."

His hands hesitated for a second before touching you. But you—before even thinking—threw yourself at him.

You held him with a strength you didn't know you had left. Clung to his chest, to the warmth of his body, to the restless drum of his heart. Your face buried in his neck, in his shoulder, in any part of him that proved you were alive.

And he held you. Held you like you were home.

"I'm here, love," he murmured. "I'm here. You don't have to run anymore. You're not alone anymore."

The crying came without warning. Not a soft sob, but a total breakdown. A tremor that started in your abdomen and shook every part of you. You screamed. You cried. You fell apart.

"I couldn't breathe..." you managed to say through tears. "Seonghwa... I... couldn't take it anymore..."

"I know," he answered, his lips against your temple. "I know, sweetheart. But it's over. No one's going to hurt you again."

The stomping of boots on the stairs was the only thing that broke that moment. Voices. Orders.

And then, Hongjoong's silhouette appeared in the doorway, with two armed agents behind him.

"Seonghwa!" he shouted, gun at the ready, but when he saw the body on the floor, the blood, and the way you trembled in his partner's arms, he lowered the weapon immediately. "God... Are you okay?"

Seonghwa did not respond immediately. He just tightened his embrace, as if afraid you would fade away if he let go.

"We need an ambulance," he said at last, without looking at them. "Not for us. For him. Make sure he's really... done."

One of the officers approached Minjae's body. He checked it. Nodded.

"He's dead."

That word floated in the air. Dead.

It should have relieved you. But it only brought more tears.

Not for him. For you. For what he had stolen from you. For what would never come back.

For the lost innocence. For the months of paranoia, of insomnia, of constant fear.

For the silences that screamed inside you.

Hongjoong approached cautiously, looking at Seonghwa and then at you.

"We have everything under control," he said firmly. "I'll talk to headquarters. You two... stay here for a moment."

Seonghwa barely nodded. He couldn't, he didn't want to let you go.

And you weren't going to let him.

"I've got you," he whispered, slowly caressing your back. "I'm with you. I'm staying. Can you hear me?"

You nodded, your forehead against his neck.

"I'm so scared..."

"You don't have to be strong now. You just have to be here. With me."

His words were like threads sewing your torn soul. They didn't promise a perfect future, but they offered the closest thing: presence. Real love. A refuge.

And for the first time in a long time, amid the pain, the broken glass, the blood and the screams, you felt something like peace.

Not because everything was fine. But because you weren't alone.

And in that embrace—desperate, dirty, hurting—there was a silent promise: life would go on.

And you were going to fight for it.

A knot tightened in your throat.

"But no more." His forehead rested against yours, his eyes closed, as if he needed to feel your existence to calm his pulse. "You don't have to hide anymore. Not with me."

Your lower lip trembled. You wanted to speak. Tell him you were broken. That maybe you would never be whole again. But he had read you before. As always.

"Listen to me." His hands gently took your face, guiding you to look at him. "You're not weak. You're not fragile. You survived. You're still here. You're still fighting. And there's nothing braver than that."

The sincerity in his eyes pierced you like a sweet stake. It hurt, but not like before. Not like the fear. It was a different pain. One that came with relief. With the possibility of healing.

"I swear that as long as I'm with you, no one is going to hurt you again. No one is going to touch you, silence you, make you doubt yourself."

Your breath hitched. The tremor in your body turned into a muffled sob. And he didn't pull away. He held you tighter. As if with just his arms, he could keep you whole.

"You're everything he could never understand," he whispered against your hair. "Everything he wanted to control, because he couldn't stand you shining without him."

One more silence. Loaded. Emotional.

"And I..." His voice dropped. More intimate. More vulnerable. "I just want to see you free. I want to see you laugh. I want to see how your eyes light up when you talk about something you love. I want to see you live without fear."

Tears fell on their own. Not for Minjae. Not for the wound. But for what you had just heard. For everything they had never told you.

"What he did to you doesn't define who you are," he said with strength. "What defines you is that, after everything, you're still here. And I—I'm so fucking proud of you."

Your fingers sought his. You intertwined them. Like a silent promise. Like an anchor.

He stayed there with you. Without hurry. Without demands. Accepting your silences. Accepting your crying. Accepting you whole, even in your fragments.

And in the middle of the chaos, the crime, the storm, the dark story that had just closed, there was a corner of peace.

Just you and him.

Just the warmth of his chest, his voice in your ear, his fingers tangled in yours.

A promise: that winter, finally was starting to melt.

It all started two years ago, with a call to the police station.

No one could have imagined that night — with the phone trembling between your fingers, your breath stuck somewhere between your ribs and your throat, fear sinking into your bones like ice water — would be the beginning of something bigger than justice. Because that night, although you were looking for help, what you found was him. Park Seonghwa. The detective who didn’t just answer the call — he heard you. Who followed every lead with an almost reverent devotion, who believed you without needing proof, who never looked at you with pity or fragility, but with the steadiness of someone who saw past your fear and into your strength. As if he already knew that your story wasn’t ending there. That, in fact, it was just beginning.

And it was.

Because if the ice had once been your first love — sharp, demanding, all-consuming — then Seonghwa became the second. A quieter, warmer love. One that didn’t ask you to be perfect, but simply to breathe. A love that taught you how to fall asleep again without needing every light on. That helped you reclaim the silence. That whispered safety into the spaces where panic used to live. That held you, night after night, until your own body stopped flinching at the sound of footsteps in the hallway. That waited for you — patient and whole — as you learned to trust the world again. Learned to trust yourself.

Coming back to skating wasn’t instant. It was slow, like thawing after a long winter. A daily ritual of placing one foot in front of the other, while fear still clung to your shadow like static. The ice didn’t feel like home at first — it felt foreign, fragile, like it might crack beneath your weight at any moment. But you had changed too. You were no longer the girl who danced between crystals for applause and gold. You were the woman who had survived. Who had crawled through darkness and decided to return. Not because it was easy, but because it mattered. One fall at a time, one trembling glide at a time, you took the ice back. And slowly, like healing, it accepted you.

And now you’re here.

Not in practice. Not in secrecy. But in the grand final of the International Championships — the summit of the dream you once buried beneath trauma, now resurrected in full bloom. The stadium around you is thunder and light. The rink beneath you glows like a frozen lake kissed by the stars. The crowd is roaring, but your gaze seeks only two faces: your grandfather, the root that never let go, the soul who once sold candy just to buy you skates. And beside him, Seonghwa — your fiancé. Your future. The man who taught you that love can be a shelter and a promise.

They’re both standing. Applauding. Crying without shame.

The music begins — a haunting, rising melody — and you move.

But not for medals. Not for revenge. Not for anyone else’s redemption. You skate for the girl who once locked herself in a bathroom, unsure if she'd ever feel whole again. You skate for the hands that shook opening threatening letters. For the nights when your breath would vanish for no reason. You skate for every moment Seonghwa held you close, saying nothing, simply being there — constant, calm, present. You skate for your freedom.

And you skate like you’ve never skated before.

Not just graceful — transcendent. Each spin carves out pieces of your past and sets them free. Each jump is a defiance, a declaration: I am still here. You become something more than a performer. You are poetry in motion. A flame on ice. A survivor wrapped in sequins, dancing in her own rebirth.

When the final note fades into silence, the applause shatters the sky.

The score flashes. It’s impossible — record-breaking. The kind of score that silences even the loudest doubts. You’ve won. The championship, yes. But more than that. You’ve won your right to exist in the light again. You’ve reclaimed your life.

You drop your hands over your mouth as the tears come — heavy, endless, necessary. You cry for everything it took to get here. For everything you lost and everything you reclaimed. You cry because you’re still standing, still skating, still alive.

In the crowd, you hear it — your grandfather’s raspy voice echoing above the rest: "THAT’S MY GRANDDAUGHTER!"

He’s waving a crumpled handkerchief, cheeks damp, eyes bright. He looks like the man who once lifted you up after every fall — and he is. He always has been.

And then — him.

Seonghwa.

No longer the stoic detective, no badge or suit to hide behind. Just him, in a long black coat, his hands in his pockets, his eyes locked onto you as if you are his entire world. When your eyes meet, his lips curve into the softest, surest smile. The kind of smile that says: we made it. He places a hand over his heart, and then points at you.

Always with you. Always for you.

And you smile — broken, breathless, whole — because you know. Because now, you can believe it.

The medal glints against your collarbone. The trophy weighs golden in your hands. But nothing is heavier — or more sacred — than the love inside your chest. The love that survived the darkness. The love that healed beside you.

Later, backstage, he finds you.

No barriers. No cameras. Just you, and him, and the moment you both fought for.

He walks straight past the restricted zone as if nothing could stop him. And when he reaches you, he wraps his arms around you and pulls you in, burying his face in your shoulder. “You did it,” he breathes, his voice cracking. “God, you really did it.”

You hold onto him, trembling. “I came back,” you whisper, “And you were there. Always.”

He leans back, just enough to look at you. His fingers trail down your cheek, brushing away a tear. The engagement ring glints on your finger — delicate, silver, chosen without fanfare but worn with quiet pride. A promise already made. A future already unfolding. His thumb brushes just beneath it, lingering there like he’s reminding himself that this is real — you are real — and not just a dream he kept chasing through case files and sleepless nights. And then he kisses you.

It isn’t rushed. It isn’t frantic.

It’s everything.

A kiss that says thank you and I’m here and we survived. A kiss that tastes like tears and hope and home. A kiss that rewrites the story of what you thought love could be.

You kiss him back. Fully. Fiercely. Without fear. With everything you have left in you — all your fight, all your grace, all your light. Your hands clutch at his coat like a lifeline, because he is. And you know it now: you will never run again. You don’t need to.

This is the end of a dark chapter. And the beginning of something entirely new.

When you finally part, your foreheads rest together, your breaths tangled. “I’m so proud of you,” he whispers, voice thick. “So fucking proud. And not because you won. Not because of the score. But because you learned to love the ice again... without forgetting to love yourself too.”

You smile through your tears. “I love you,” you whisper back, because there’s nothing else truer than that.

And when he says it in return — low, fierce, full — your grandfather arrives, eyes swollen, heart wide open. He wraps you both in his arms like he’s holding onto a dream that finally came true.

And it’s in that exact moment that you understand it — all of it.

The fear. The fight. The pain. The recovery. The love.

It was all to get here. To this.

Your life didn’t end in fear. It began when you faced it.

And the ice? It’s no longer just a stage. It’s your voice. Your sanctuary. Your freedom. Your home.

Because the ice may still be cold — But it will never, ever freeze you again.

taglist: @hwasflower @queenofdumbfuckery

a/n: well, here we go with the first fic of the new atz section on the blog. i hope you liked, if you did — repost, comments and likes are always welcome.

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