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The night air is thick, pressing against Jisung’s skin like a damp second layer. The shortcut he takes through the alley is one he’s walked dozens of times before, but tonight it feels different. He blames the fight. The ache in his wrist where Chan’s fingers had dug in too tight. The distant echo of his voice, sharp and unforgiving.
“You’re always so fucking sensitive.”
Jisung clenches his jaw, shaking off the memory as he hurries his pace. The faster he gets home, the sooner he can crawl into bed and pretend none of this happened.
Then—he hears it.
A strangled gasp, barely a breath. A wet, sickening sound, like flesh parting beneath something sharp. The muted thud of a body hitting the ground.
Jisung freezes.
His pulse jumps straight to his throat, choking him as his mind races to make sense of the noise. He steps forward, slow, cautious. Just past the corner, half-hidden in the dim glow of a flickering street lamp, he sees them.
Two figures.
One is on the ground, motionless. The other stands above them, blade in hand.
Jisung stops breathing.
The man is dressed in black—everything about him is shadow. His posture is relaxed, the knife in his hand tilting slightly downward, still wet. It gleams under the weak light. The air smells like rust. Like something wrong .
Jisung’s stomach churns. His fingers twitch at his sides, aching to grab onto something, to do something, but he can’t. His limbs feel disconnected from his brain, frozen in place.
Then, the man looks up.
Jisung’s heart stops.
Even in the darkness, those eyes cut straight through him. Cold, dark, sharp. Not startled. Not panicked. Just… watching.
Jisung feels the weight of that stare like a knife against his throat. It’s too much. He takes a step back, the heel of his shoe scraping against the pavement. The sound feels deafening in the silence.
The man tilts his head.
The movement is slow, deliberate, like he’s examining something curious. His grip on the knife shifts, and Jisung swears he sees his fingers flex, like he’s considering using it again.
A shiver crawls up Jisung’s spine. This is it. He’s seen too much. He’s dead .
Then, the man smirks.
It’s barely there—a twitch of the lips, subtle, unreadable. And then, just like that, he turns around and walks away.
Jisung doesn’t move. He can’t. His brain struggles to process what just happened.
He just… left?
A body is lying on the ground, still warm, blood darkening the pavement. And the man who did it is simply gone, like he never existed at all.
Jisung’s stomach lurches. His chest tightens, lungs burning as he sucks in a sharp breath, suddenly aware of how long he’s been holding it.
He needs to get out of here. Now.
His legs finally obey, and he stumbles back, nearly tripping over his own feet before turning and breaking into a run. His breath comes in short, panicked bursts. Every sound—the wind rustling the trees, a car engine in the distance—feels like footsteps following him. Like him .
By the time he reaches his apartment, his hands are shaking so badly that he fumbles the key, dropping it twice before finally shoving it into the lock. He stumbles inside, slamming the door behind him. His back presses against the wood as he gasps for air, his whole body trembling.
His mind screams at him to call the police. To tell someone . But what the hell would he even say?
I saw a man kill someone. He looked me in the eyes and left me alive.
They wouldn’t believe him. Hell, he barely believes him.
Jisung presses a hand over his mouth, squeezing his eyes shut. The image of that smirk burns behind his eyelids, making his skin crawl.
He doesn’t sleep that night.
And when he opens his front door the next morning, there’s an envelope waiting for him on the ground.
White. Unmarked.
His fingers tremble as he picks it up, his stomach twisting into knots. He doesn’t want to open it. He knows he shouldn’t.
But he does.
The paper inside is smooth. The handwriting is elegant, slanted—too perfect to be natural.
Just one sentence.
You should be dead, but I changed my mind.
–
Jisung spends the entire day trying to pretend he’s fine.
He isn’t.
The letter lingers in the back of his mind, its weight pressing against his skull like a headache that won’t fade. He tells himself it was just a prank. A coincidence. A misunderstanding.
But that doesn’t explain why his chest feels tight the entire way home.
It doesn’t explain the nausea curling in his stomach as he unlocks his apartment door and steps inside.
Jisung knows something is wrong the second he steps into his apartment.
It’s subtle. A shift in the air. A wrongness he can’t place. His keys clink against the counter as he sets them down, and his breath is the only sound breaking the silence.
But something feels off.
Then he sees it.
A single, deep-red rose sitting on his kitchen counter.
Jisung stops breathing.
His stomach twists violently as his brain scrambles for an explanation, but none come. The petals are perfect, untouched, rich with color like fresh blood. The stem is long, sharp thorns curling from its surface. It doesn’t belong here. It shouldn’t be here.
His gaze flickers beside it—and that’s when he sees the envelope.
Jisung’s pulse slams against his ribs.
His name is written on it.
Not just any envelope. Not just a random message .
His name .
His hands go cold. His vision tunnels.
Someone was here.
Someone was close enough— knew enough —to leave this for him.
Slowly, with fingers that barely work, he reaches for it. The paper is smooth beneath his fingertips, unmarked except for the elegant, slanted handwriting spelling out his name.
He swallows hard. His throat feels tight, dry.
The first letter was terrifying, but this?
This is worse.
Because this time, they aren’t just watching. They aren’t just warning him.
They are getting closer .
Jisung’s breath shudders as he slides the letter free. He doesn’t want to read it. He knows he shouldn’t.
But his eyes are already moving, scanning the words with growing dread.
You look even prettier when you’re afraid.
Jisung exhales shakily, his grip tightening. His stomach churns.
I like you like this.
Don’t run from me. I’d hate to have to remind you why you should be grateful.
His throat clenches. Grateful?
His gaze flickers downward.
The last man who didn’t appreciate what he had ended up bleeding in an alley.
Ice slides through his veins.
He doesn’t have to ask who they’re talking about.
His mind flashes back to that night. The body. The blood. The way the man had looked at him— seen him—before walking away.
His chest tightens, lungs constricting painfully. The words blur in his vision, but they don’t change. They don’t go away.
The final line makes his whole body lock up.
Be good for me, Jisung.
The paper crumples slightly in his grip. His hands are shaking too much to hold it steady.
His stomach lurches, bile rising to his throat. His apartment feels wrong. Too open. Too quiet.
Someone was here.
Someone walked inside his home, left this letter, left the rose.
A gift. A warning. A promise.
Jisung stumbles back, nearly knocking into the table as his legs threaten to give out. His heart is racing so fast it hurts. His skin prickles with the unmistakable sensation of being watched.
He needs to get out.
Blindly, he grabs his phone, nearly dropping it as his fingers fumble against the screen. His breath is coming too fast, too sharp, and he can barely think past the static in his head as he presses call.
The dial tone barely rings once before a voice picks up.
"What?"
Jisung swallows down the nausea in his throat. His voice shakes when he speaks.
"Can I come over?"
A pause.
Then Chan sighs, long and drawn out, like he’s already exhausted by Jisung’s presence before he’s even there.
"Whatever. Just don’t make it a thing."
Jisung nods, even though Chan can’t see him. "I won’t."
He doesn’t bother grabbing anything. Just his jacket, his phone, his keys.
He leaves without looking back.
And when he locks the door behind him, he knows it doesn’t matter.
Because locks don’t keep out someone who already has a way in.
–
Jisung doesn’t remember the walk to Chan’s apartment.
His body moves on autopilot, legs carrying him forward while his mind stays stuck on the letter. The rose. The way his name had been written so perfectly, like a signature on something already owned.
He shivers and pulls his jacket tighter around himself, but the chill isn’t from the air.
Chan’s apartment is dim when he arrives. The door swings open before Jisung even knocks, Chan standing in the doorway, expression set somewhere between boredom and irritation.
"Took you long enough," he mutters, stepping aside to let Jisung in.
Jisung hesitates. Just for a second.
The weight in his chest is heavy—fear pressing against his ribs, panic still clawing at the edges of his mind. But Chan is here . He is real, solid, normal.
So Jisung steps inside.
–
For a little while, it’s fine.
The television hums in the background, playing something neither of them are paying attention to. The drink in Jisung’s hand burns down his throat, dulling the sharp edges of his nerves. Chan sits beside him, close enough that Jisung can feel his body heat, but far enough that there’s space between them.
It’s quiet.
Jisung exhales, pressing his fingers against the glass in his hands. Maybe this was a good idea. Maybe he just needed to be somewhere else, needed to hear the sound of another human voice, needed to be reminded that the world is still normal .
Then Chan ruins it.
"You’re acting weird."
Jisung stiffens.
"What?"
Chan looks at him, scrutinizing, and Jisung suddenly feels seen in the worst possible way.
"You’ve been twitchy since you got here." Chan’s voice is flat, unimpressed. "Are you on something?"
Jisung’s stomach turns. He sets his drink down a little too hard.
"No."
Chan snorts. "Right."
Jisung’s jaw tightens. "I’m not."
"Then what is it?"
The question hits too deep, too sharp.
Jisung doesn’t have an answer. Not one that won’t make him sound insane. Not one that Chan will actually listen to.
He doesn’t answer.
Chan watches him, waiting, then shakes his head. "Whatever. It’s probably your own fault anyway."
Jisung’s spine locks up. "What?"
"Come on, Jisung." Chan scoffs. "You always act like shit just happens to you. Like the universe just decided to fuck you over for no reason. But we both know that’s not true."
Jisung clenches his fists, nails digging into his palms.
"I don’t—"
"You do." Chan’s voice is harder now, cutting. "You create problems and then act surprised when they bite you in the ass."
Jisung breathes in through his nose. Don’t react. Don’t fight. Just get through it.
"You’re being an asshole," he mutters.
"I’m being honest."
Jisung’s blood boils.
"You always do this." His voice wavers, but the anger is there, growing, fighting against the exhaustion pressing down on him. "You always make everything my fault."
Chan laughs. It’s short, sharp.
"Because it is."
Jisung snaps.
"Fuck you, Chan."
The words leave his mouth before he can stop them, and he barely registers standing up before Chan is right in front of him, too close, his presence towering over him like a shadow.
"What did you just say?"
Jisung refuses to back down. "I said, fuck you."
The second the words leave his mouth, he knows it’s a mistake.
Chan moves too fast for him to react.
Fingers wrap around his wrist— too tight, too familiar . Jisung barely has time to suck in a breath before he’s shoved back against the couch, Chan’s grip bruising against his skin.
"Say it again."
Jisung grits his teeth, but there’s panic creeping into the edges of his anger now. His wrist aches where Chan is holding him, his heartbeat slamming against his ribs.
"Let go."
Chan doesn’t.
"You show up here all shaken up, acting like I owe you something. Like I’m supposed to drop everything just because poor little Jisung doesn’t want to be alone." His grip tightens. "You think you can talk to me like that?"
Jisung’s pulse pounds. He pushes against Chan’s hold, but Chan is stronger. He always has been.
"Chan—"
The fingers around his wrist squeeze harder, and Jisung sucks in a sharp breath.
Then—Chan lets go.
Jisung stumbles back, breath coming in short, shaky bursts. His skin burns where Chan’s fingers had been, the phantom sensation of his grip lingering like a fresh bruise.
Chan exhales sharply, shaking his head. "Get out."
Jisung blinks.
"What?"
"Get out, Jisung."
Jisung stares at him, his wrist throbbing, his chest heaving.
Chan’s expression is unreadable. His jaw is clenched, his posture tense, like he’s holding something back.
Jisung swallows down the lump in his throat, forcing himself to move. He grabs his jacket, his fingers still shaking. His whole body is still shaking.
He doesn’t say anything as he walks to the door.
Chan doesn’t either.
The door slams behind him.
–
Jisung doesn’t know how long he walks before his brain catches up to him.
His wrist aches. His throat is tight. His whole body is humming with the remnants of adrenaline, his mind a mess of static and anger and fear .
He left his apartment to escape. To feel safe.
But there is no safety.
Not in Chan’s apartment.
Not in his own home.
Nowhere.
Jisung exhales shakily, dragging a hand down his face. He needs to go back. Needs to lock his door, needs to try and think.
But when he finally gets home, his breath catches in his throat.
Because waiting for him, sitting neatly in front of his door, is another rose.
And another letter.
–
Jisung knows something is wrong before he even sees it.
It’s a feeling—an instinct buried deep in his gut, warning him, screaming at him that he isn’t alone.
The hallway is silent, but it doesn’t feel empty . The air is thick, pressing against his skin, making it harder to breathe. The dim lighting flickers overhead, casting his shadow long against the floor.
And then—he sees it.
His stomach drops .
A rose.
Not pristine this time. The petals are bruised, some slightly torn, as if someone had clenched it too tightly before setting it down with care. A few scattered petals rest on the floor, crushed under an invisible weight.
Next to it, an envelope.
Jisung stares.
His name is on it.
Again.
His breath catches. His pulse pounds against his throat. His feet feel cemented to the floor, his body screaming at him to walk away. To run .
But he doesn’t.
His fingers tremble as he reaches for it, his skin prickling the second he touches the envelope.
The paper is smooth. Cold.
Too heavy .
He knows what’s inside. He knows what it means.
But he slides the letter free anyway.
The handwriting is the same. Elegant, slanted—too perfect to be rushed. But there’s something different this time. The ink is heavier, the strokes deeper, pressed into the paper with too much force, as if the writer had been barely holding himself together.
He reads.
His hands don’t belong on you.
Jisung inhales sharply, his grip tightening.
His stomach churns. His mind stutters, caught between the weight of the words and the reality of what they mean.
Chan.
He knows .
The memory flashes behind his eyes too fast to stop. The rough grip around his wrist. The sharp bite of words meant to cut. The suffocating weight of being pushed down .
Jisung swallows, blinking back the sudden burn in his eyes.
His fingers curl tighter around the letter.
He keeps reading.
I don’t like being tested, Jisung.
I don’t like watching things I own being treated like garbage.
I don’t like him.
His breath catches.
His entire body tenses.
This isn’t just about watching anymore.
Whoever this person is, whoever has been leaving these letters—they don’t see Jisung as just a stranger.
They see him as theirs.
Possession curls in every word, thick and suffocating, wrapping around Jisung’s throat like an invisible chain.
And the next line makes his blood freeze .
If he touches you again, I will break him.
If he hurts you again, I will bury him.
Jisung nearly drops the letter.
His chest tightens, his breath coming faster, too shallow, too uneven.
This isn’t a warning.
This isn’t just some twisted game.
This is rage.
This is personal.
Jisung forces himself to keep reading, his vision blurring slightly.
I’ll give you this chance. Just one.
If you don’t want his blood on your hands, keep him in line.
Be good for me, Jisung.
The words burn into his mind, leaving an imprint so deep he knows he’ll never forget them.
The paper shakes in his hands. His pulse pounds in his ears, a steady, deafening beat of this is real, this is happening, this is real .
Chan.
He doesn’t know who this person is.
But he knows everything.
He was watching.
Maybe from the street. Maybe from the shadows. Maybe closer. Too close.
Jisung sucks in a sharp breath. The walls of the hallway feel like they’re pressing inward, like the space is getting smaller, suffocating. The light above flickers, and his body jerks involuntarily, panic slamming into him all at once.
This isn’t some stalker lurking from a distance.
This person has already decided.
They aren’t warning Jisung.
They’re giving him a choice.
And if he makes the wrong one—
Chan dies.
Jisung stumbles back, nearly losing his footing as his head spins. His fingers clench around the letter, knuckles going white as his breathing stutters.
His first instinct is to run.
To call Chan . To warn him.
But he knows—he knows —that it won’t do anything.
Because this person isn’t bluffing.
Jisung believes him.
And that’s the worst part.
Jisung’s chest heaves, his heartbeat erratic as his eyes dart to the hallway, searching for anything. Any sign of movement. Any trace of a figure in the shadows.
But he sees nothing.
No footsteps.
No lingering presence.
Just the rose.
Just the letter.
Just the reminder that no matter where he goes, no matter what he does—
He isn’t alone.
–
The letters keep coming.
He tells himself he won’t open them.
It doesn’t matter what they say. They won’t make it better. They won’t fix anything.
But he does. Every single time.
Because the not knowing is worse.
Because maybe, if he reads them, he’ll understand what he wants.
Because ignoring them feels like tempting fate.
The letters are always the same—folded neatly, written in the same elegant, careful script. Each one is different, but the message never changes.
He’s still watching.
He still knows.
And worst of all—
He’s still waiting.
–
The next letter after the warning arrives in the morning. Jisung hesitates before opening it, fingers trembling as he slides the paper free.
Did you miss me?
You haven’t been very talkative. I don’t like being ignored.
But that’s alright. I’ll be patient with you.
A single petal slips out from the envelope, landing soundlessly on the counter.
Jisung stares at it, heart hammering.
The words don’t make sense. He’s never spoken to this person, never given them anything to be waiting for—
But the next day’s letter clarifies everything.
Jisung nearly trips over the envelope when he opens his front door.
He should leave it there. Pretend not to see it. But the itch in his spine won’t let him.
The paper is smooth beneath his fingers. The words are worse.
I saw you today.
You looked tired.
Are you eating well?
Jisung’s breath stutters.
The letter is folded too perfectly, the handwriting too careful, like the writer took their time.
Like they enjoyed it.
I wonder if you know how easy it would be for me to take care of you instead.
Jisung drops the letter like it burned him.
The next letter is waiting for him inside.
Jisung’s stomach lurches. His knees nearly give out.
His hands shake as he picks it up.
I like when you’re home.
You always look safest here.
You always look prettiest when you’re afraid.
Jisung shudders, his vision blurring.
His body is shaking too much to keep reading, but his eyes move down the page anyway.
Do you dream about me yet?
I dream about you.
His fingers tighten around the letter, creasing the paper.
This isn’t some stalker watching from a distance.
This is intimate.
And he knows .
Jisung staggers backward, stomach churning.
He needs to get rid of it.
Needs to throw it away.
But he can’t.
His hands won’t move. His chest is too tight. His skin prickles with something close to panic—
What if he notices?
What if that makes him angry?
What if that makes things worse?
So the letters stay.
They sit on his counter, stacked in a growing pile. He doesn’t move them. He doesn’t even touch them unless he has to.
But he feels them.
A presence in the room. A reminder that he isn’t alone, no matter how empty the apartment seems.
–
Jisung avoids Chan.
Jisung doesn’t call.
Doesn’t text.
Doesn’t look.
At first, it’s easy.
His phone lights up with messages that he ignores, with missed calls that he refuses to return.
But Chan doesn’t give up easily.
His messages shift—first irritated, then concerned, then frustrated all over again.
Chan: Seriously? You’re ignoring me?
Chan: Just fucking say you’re mad instead of pulling this shit.
Chan: Are you okay?
Chan: Fine. Do whatever you want.
Jisung stares at the last message for a long time.
He should feel relieved.
Instead, he feels sick.
Because this isn’t about Chan anymore.
It’s about him.
The one writing the letters. The one who left that last message like a noose around Jisung’s neck.
If you don’t want his blood on your hands, keep him in line.
Jisung exhales sharply, stomach twisting.
The meaning had been clear.
If Chan ever lays his hands on him again—
He’ll die.
Jisung believes it.
It’s not a threat. It’s not an if.
It’s a promise.
And the worst part?
He isn’t even sure if he’s trying to protect Chan anymore—
Or himself.
–
Jisung doesn’t expect the knock.
It’s late—too late for visitors. The air in his apartment is heavy, the silence pressing down on him like a second skin. He hasn’t checked his phone in hours, hasn’t responded to anyone in days.
His stomach twists as he stands, his breath coming shallow.
The knock comes again. Harder this time .
He already knows who it is.
Still, he hesitates before unlocking the door.
The second it swings open, Chan pushes inside.
Jisung stumbles back, barely catching himself on the counter as Chan kicks the door shut behind him. His face is tight with frustration, jaw clenched, eyes sharp.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?"
Jisung’s stomach drops.
"Chan—"
"No. Shut up." Chan steps forward, closing the space between them. "You’ve been ignoring me for a week."
Jisung swallows. His throat is dry, his pulse racing. He doesn’t know what to say—doesn’t know what would make this stop.
"I—I’ve just been busy." It’s weak. He knows it.
Chan’s eyes narrow.
"Bullshit."
Jisung barely has time to react before Chan grabs his arm.
Not hard. Not at first.
But the grip tightens.
Jisung flinches, his body tensing on instinct.
"You think you can just disappear?" Chan’s voice is low, but his fingers squeeze. "You don’t get to fucking ghost me, Jisung."
Jisung’s breath stutters. His chest constricts, panic swelling like a bruise beneath his ribs.
"I wasn’t—" He tries to pull away, but Chan doesn’t let go.
"You were."
The words are sharp. Final.
Jisung’s fingers curl into fists at his sides, his pulse thudding in his ears.
This is exactly what he warned about.
This moment—Chan’s temper, his anger, his hands on him again—this is what the letters promised would happen.
And now, Jisung knows.
He knows there will be another letter waiting for him after this.
Another message.
Another rose.
And another threat.
Because last time, it was just a warning.
This time—
Jisung feels his stomach twist violently.
"Chan, let go." His voice shakes, but he forces the words out anyway.
Chan doesn’t.
"You’re gonna look me in the face and tell me you’ve been ‘busy’?" His grip tightens. "That’s it? That’s all you have to fucking say?"
Jisung exhales sharply, his breath catching in his throat.
"Let go."
Chan doesn’t move.
For a second, Jisung thinks he won’t. That he’s going to push harder, that this is going to get worse .
But then, finally, he lets go.
Jisung stumbles back, cradling his arm as his skin burns where Chan’s fingers had been.
"You’re unbelievable," Chan mutters, shaking his head. "You act like I’m the bad guy, but you don’t even try, Jisung. You don’t fucking try."
Jisung doesn’t say anything.
He just watches as Chan runs a hand through his hair, lets out a sharp breath, and turns for the door.
"Don’t expect me to come back next time."
The door slams behind him.
Jisung exhales shakily, his whole body trembling.
His arm throbs.
And deep in his gut, he knows—
There will be another letter tomorrow.
And this time, it won’t be a warning.
–
Jisung wakes up to silence.
For a few seconds, he forgets.
Forgets about the letters. Forgets about the roses. Forgets about the way Chan’s fingers had wrapped around his arm the night before, anger sharp in his voice, his grip.
Then he moves.
Pain flares up his arm, a dull ache settling deep in the muscle. A bruise, dark and blooming, already forming beneath his skin.
And then he remembers.
The sickening dread rolls in before he even reaches the door.
Because he knows.
There’s always another letter.
There always will be.
–
The envelope is waiting for him.
Sitting just inside his apartment.
Jisung’s pulse spikes, his throat tightening as he stares at it. He doesn’t even remember locking the door last night. Maybe he did. Maybe he didn’t.
But it doesn’t matter.
He got in.
He was here.
Again.
Jisung’s hands are cold when he picks up the envelope.
This one is heavier than the others.
His breath is shallow, his fingers trembling as he peels it open. The paper inside is as crisp as ever, the handwriting as perfect as always.
But this time, there’s something else.
Something thicker. Stacked behind the letter.
Polaroids.
Jisung doesn’t want to look.
But he does.
And then his knees buckle.
His breath leaves him in a broken, choked gasp. The blood drains from his face so fast he feels lightheaded.
The first photo is Chan.
Face-down on the pavement.
His body is still. Unmoving. The dark stain beneath him soaks through his shirt, spilling onto the concrete like ink.
Jisung flips to the next one with shaking hands.
Chan’s face. Eyes open. Vacant.
Lifeless.
Jisung’s stomach twists .
The air is thick and heavy, suffocating. His vision blurs at the edges, his heartbeat a frantic, uneven thing as he forces himself to look at the last one.
A close-up.
His lips slightly parted. His throat—
Jisung drops the photos .
His hands slap over his mouth, his stomach lurching. His knees hit the floor.
This isn’t real.
It can’t be real.
But the images are burned into his brain, seared into his memory like a brand.
Chan is dead.
Jisung chokes on a breath, his body shuddering as he grips his knees, trying to ground himself, trying to pull himself out of this. But then his gaze flickers down—
To the letter.
The paper is smooth beneath his trembling fingers, the ink still as precise, as careful as before.
But the message is different now.
It’s not a warning.
It’s not a threat.
It’s a lesson.
You let him touch you.
You let him hurt you.
I told you I wouldn’t allow it.
Jisung’s breath catches, his pulse slamming against his ribs.
His fingers shake, gripping the letter so tightly the paper bends.
I want you to remember this, Jisung.
Every bruise he left on you was a mistake.
And I don’t forgive mistakes.
Jisung swallows hard, bile rising in his throat.
The last line makes his entire body lock up.
You’re safe now.
Jisung’s hands tremble so badly that the letter slips from his grasp.
His stomach churns violently, nausea curling deep in his gut. His vision swims, the world tilting around him, warping under the weight of what’s in front of him.
This isn’t just about Chan.
This is about him .
His choices. His mistakes .
And the fact that someone—somewhere—is making sure he’ll never make them again.
–
Jisung walks fast.
His fingers twitch at his sides, his breath shallow, his heart hammering too hard in his chest. The city around him is just noise—too loud, too distant, too far away from what matters.
He shouldn’t have gone to the police.
He knows that now.
Every step away from that station feels like a step closer to something worse. Like he’s pulling a thread that should have been left alone, unraveling something he’ll never be able to stitch back together.
His head is too full .
With thoughts. With memories. With him.
The letters. The photos. The way his name looks in that precise, careful handwriting.
Chan’s lifeless eyes.
Jisung flinches, nausea rising in his throat.
He needs to get home. He needs to—
No.
Home isn’t safe.
Nowhere is safe.
He barely notices when he turns down the alley.
Not until it’s too late.
The grip comes fast .
A hand yanks at his jacket, jerking him back, and Jisung stumbles, his breath catching sharp in his throat.
"The fuck do we have here?"
Jisung’s pulse spikes .
His vision tilts—too much movement, too fast, too sudden. His body locks up, his mind sluggish to react.
Not again. Not again.
Two men.
Tall. Smirking. Too close.
"You got a wallet, sweetheart?"
Jisung exhales, sharp and ragged.
His fingers twitch, panic closing in on his ribs, squeezing, suffocating. He should do something—run, fight, move.
But his body won’t listen .
"Don’t be rude," the second man mutters, grabbing his arm, nails biting into his skin. "We asked you a question."
Jisung jerks, twisting away, but the grip tightens .
He sucks in a sharp breath, his stomach turning.
They aren’t letting go.
They aren’t going to.
His thoughts spiral.
He doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want to be here . He doesn’t want to be trapped again, held down again, helpless again—
The alley feels too tight.
There’s no air. No space. No way out.
He can’t—
He can’t do this again.
Then—
A sound.
Soft. Calm. Patient .
"I’d walk away if I were you."
Jisung freezes .
The men do, too.
The shift in the air is instant—sharp, unmistakable.
A presence.
Him.
Jisung doesn’t turn.
He doesn’t have to .
He knows who it is.
Knows it deep in his bones, in the way his breath catches, in the way something deep and dark coils inside his gut.
The two men glance at each other.
"Who the fuck are you?"
The stranger steps forward.
Calm. Unhurried. Certain .
Jisung forces himself to move.
Forces himself to look.
And there he is.
The man from the letters.
The man from the shadows.
The one who’s been watching him .
His first thought is that he shouldn’t be here .
His second thought is that he was always going to be here .
"I said walk away."
The tone is soft. Patient. But underneath—
Something sharp .
Something final.
The two men hesitate.
Jisung sees it—the slight shift in their posture, the sudden wariness, the unspoken understanding that they’re standing in front of something worse than them.
Then—
The first one scoffs.
"Yeah? Or what?"
Jisung doesn’t blink.
Doesn’t breathe.
Because in the next second—
He moves.
And everything ends .
One second, the alley is suffocating—Jisung trapped, his pulse hammering, his mind spiraling.
The next—
Jisung barely sees it.
A blur of motion. A sharp gasp. A sickening crack.
Then—
A body hits the ground.
Jisung flinches .
His breath stutters, his stomach twisting as he watches the first man slump forward, silent .
No sound. No scream. Just gone.
The second man stumbles back.
"What the fu—"
The man doesn’t let him finish.
Jisung can’t look away.
The knife is in his hand before the second man can react .
The movement is clean. Precise.
A sharp slash—deep, final.
A gurgling sound.
Then—
Silence.
Jisung’s whole body locks up .
The air is heavy, thick with something heavier—something warm, something wet.
Something red.
Jisung’s breath catches.
His stomach lurches.
He doesn’t move.
Doesn’t breathe.
The second body collapses.
Limp. Lifeless.
He stands over them, still. Unrushed. Unbothered .
Like this was nothing.
Like this was just another routine.
He exhales slowly, rolling his shoulders back before turning.
His gaze settles on Jisung.
And then—
"Breathe, Jisung."
The words snap through the fog in his head.
Jisung gasps , sucking in a sharp breath as his body shudders .
He steps forward.
Slow. Careful.
Like Jisung is something fragile .
Something breakable .
"Shh." His voice is softer now, a stark contrast to the violence that still lingers in the air. "You’re alright."
Jisung shakes .
His whole body trembles , his chest rising and falling in short, uneven gasps.
He can’t—
He doesn’t—
The man kneels in front of him.
Not touching. Not yet.
"Look at me."
Jisung does .
He doesn’t want to, but he does.
His gaze is steady. Calm .
As if nothing just happened. As if Jisung didn’t just watch him kill two people. As if the bodies on the ground aren’t already cooling.
"They won’t hurt you now."
The words wrap around him. Sink into him.
And for one terrifying, twisted second—
Jisung almost believes him.
Because it’s true.
They won’t hurt him.
They can’t.
Not anymore.
His stomach clenches.
"You’re safe," He murmurs.
Jisung’s breath stutters .
But then—
His fingers ghost over his wrist.
Soft. Gentle.
And Jisung remembers .
The letters. The photos.
The mistake he made.
The man hums.
"But you weren’t supposed to go to the police, were you?"
Jisung freezes .
His stomach drops .
The man tilts his head, his grip firming.
Not tight. Not painful. Not yet.
"You don’t listen, Jisung."
Jisung’s whole body locks up .
His fingers trail upward, his touch slow, lingering.
"And I don’t like that."
Jisung swallows hard.
His pulse is erratic, his mind spinning, screaming.
He leans in.
Close. Too close.
"I think it’s time you learned what happens when you disobey me."
Jisung shudders .
And this time—
There’s no one coming to save him.
–
Jisung’s breath shakes.
His chest rises and falls in shallow, uneven gasps, his ribs tightening around the panic clawing its way through him.
The man is too close .
The blood on the ground hasn’t even dried yet. The weight of what just happened is still pressing against Jisung’s skin, suffocating, overwhelming .
And yet—
He touches him like none of it matters.
Like the bodies cooling at their feet are nothing more than an inconvenience .
His fingers skim over his jaw, featherlight, his grip not tight —not yet.
"I warned you, didn’t I?" He hums, tilting Jisung’s face up. His thumb brushes over the curve of his cheek, almost affectionate. "You don’t go to other people, Jisung."
Jisung swallows hard.
He wants to fight.
He wants to move.
But he is watching him so closely .
Like he’s waiting .
Like he wants Jisung to resist.
Like he’d enjoy it .
Jisung’s fingers twitch against the ground.
"Go ahead," he murmurs, his breath warm against Jisung’s skin. "Try to run."
Jisung doesn’t.
He knows better.
He sighs, his grip tightening just slightly, fingers pressing against Jisung’s jaw.
"Good choice."
Jisung hates the way his stomach clenches at those words.
The air between them crackles .
Jisung doesn’t even see it coming .
A sharp yank—his wrist caught, his body dragged forward .
His stomach lurches as he’s flipped onto his front, his hands pinned against the cold pavement.
A sharp pressure against his back—The man’s weight pressing down , keeping him still .
Jisung thrashes—but he is stronger .
"You don’t get to fight me on this." His voice is calm—too calm. "You don’t get to run."
Jisung gasps , his wrists burning beneath his grip.
He leans in.
"You went to the police, Jisung."
Jisung squeezes his eyes shut.
"You told them about Chan."
His grip tightens.
Jisung whimpers .
"And now I have to remind you who you belong to."
Then—
Pain.
A sharp, stinging crack across the back of his thigh.
Jisung jerks .
His eyes snap open .
A sharp burn blossoms where his hand struck him, a deep, stinging heat radiating from the impact.
"Hurts, doesn’t it?"
Jisung gasps, his fingers clenching into fists.
"That’s the point."
Another strike .
Jisung yelps , his whole body lurching forward, but the man doesn’t let him go.
His wrist is still trapped . His body still held down.
"Count for me, Jisung."
Jisung shakes his head .
He won’t.
He clicks his tongue.
"Disobedient, even now."
Another strike .
Jisung chokes on a gasp, his spine arching involuntarily as the pain flares through him.
"I won’t stop until you say it."
Jisung’s chest heaves .
His skin is burning , heat crawling up his spine, panic twisting in his ribs.
"One—" His voice breaks.
The man exhales, satisfied.
"That’s better."
The next strike is slower.
More precise .
More intentional.
Jisung shudders .
His breath is unsteady, his fingers trembling against the pavement.
"Two—"
He hums, dragging his fingers over the red, burning skin.
"See? You’re learning."
Jisung’s stomach twists .
Another strike.
"Three—"
His voice wavers .
The man smiles.
"Good boy."
Jisung’s whole body shakes .
His skin is too hot. His mind is too full. His ribs ache from how hard he’s breathing.
The man’s hand soothes over the heat of the punishment, tracing over the marks he’s left.
"Now you won’t forget."
Jisung swallows hard, his pulse hammering.
"Next time, I won’t be this gentle."
Jisung whimpers .
The man leans in, his lips brushing against Jisung’s ear.
"And there will be a next time, Jisung."
Jisung trembles .
The man finally releases his wrists.
Jisung doesn’t move.
He can’t.
His body won’t.
He stands, adjusting his sleeves, watching as Jisung stays curled on the pavement, his breathing uneven, his whole body wrecked .
"I expect you to behave now."
The man steps back.
And then—
He leaves .
Jisung doesn’t move.
Doesn’t breathe.
His skin burns , his chest aches , his body remembers .
And deep down—
He knows.
This isn’t over.
This is just the beginning.
—
Jisung’s apartment feels like a cage.
The walls, once a sanctuary, now press in on him, suffocating, echoing with the memories of what transpired. Every corner seems to harbor shadows that whisper his name, reminding him of the blood, the bodies, and him—the man who claimed ownership over his very existence.
He hasn’t slept.
Every time he closes his eyes, the scene replays in vivid detail: The man’s swift movements, the lifeless eyes of the men who attacked him, and the cold, calculated punishment that followed. His skin still burns with the phantom pain of his touch, a cruel reminder etched into his very being.
Jisung paces the small living room, his breath shallow, heart racing. The silence is deafening, broken only by the erratic thud of his own pulse. He runs a trembling hand through his hair, gripping the strands as if the pain might anchor him to reality.
“What do I do? What can I do?” His voice cracks, the sound foreign in the oppressive stillness.
Chan is gone. The one person he might have turned to, despite their strained relationship, is dead—because of him. Because he dared to seek help, dared to defy the invisible chains that now bind him tighter than ever.
He sinks to the floor, knees drawn to his chest, rocking slightly as the weight of his isolation bears down. There’s no one left. No friends he trusts enough to confide in, no family nearby, and even if there were—he can’t risk dragging them into this nightmare.
The man’s words haunt him: “Next time, I won’t be this gentle.”
A shiver courses through him. The threat isn’t just to him; it’s to anyone he might involve. He can’t bear the thought of another person suffering because of his actions.
Tears blur his vision, frustration and fear intertwining in a suffocating embrace. He’s trapped, ensnared in a web meticulously woven around him, with no clear way out.
The night stretches on, each minute an eternity. Jisung remains on the floor, exhaustion pulling at him, but terror keeping him awake. He knows he can’t stay here, but he has nowhere else to go. No one to turn to.
He’s utterly, devastatingly alone.
—
The days blur together.
Jisung barely eats. Barely sleeps. Every time he closes his eyes, he sees him. The memory of his voice, his touch, his violence—woven so deeply into his mind that it’s impossible to shake. His body still remembers. Every ache, every phantom press of fingers against his skin.
And the letters keep coming.
Every morning, without fail, there’s an envelope waiting for him.
Sometimes on the floor inside his apartment.
Sometimes sitting on his kitchen counter, as if he had stood right there, mere feet away from him, while he slept.
He doesn’t throw them away. He doesn’t dare.
Instead, they pile up, a constant reminder of the cage closing in around him.
Each one is worse than the last.
I know you didn’t sleep last night.
I heard you moving around.
Why are you trying to fight this, Jisung?
You belong to me.
And then another.
You still haven’t thanked me for what I did.
Do you miss him?
You shouldn’t.
He hurt you. And I fixed it.
You should be grateful.
Jisung trembles as he reads them. But he never stops. He never can.
Because the not knowing is worse.
By the fourth day, he’s falling apart. His body is sluggish, his mind foggy with exhaustion. His hands shake as he unlocks his door, the weight of another sleepless night pressing down on his shoulders.
There’s another letter waiting for him.
This time, it’s different.
The envelope is heavier. The ink darker, as if he had pressed the pen too hard into the paper.
Jisung swallows hard, his pulse hammering in his ears as he pulls out the note.
His eyes move over the words, and the world tilts beneath him.
I’m tired of waiting.
I’ll see you tonight.
His breath stutters.
A chill rips through him, cold and merciless. His fingers tighten around the paper, the ink blurring slightly under his trembling grip.
Tonight .
He doesn’t think. He can’t.
His body moves before his mind catches up, panic taking over, overriding every other instinct.
He grabs his bag. His phone. His wallet.
And then he’s running.
Jisung doesn’t know where he’s going. He doesn’t care. He just knows he has to get out.
Because this time, the man isn’t waiting.
This time, he’s coming for Jisung.
And Jisung knows—knows in the deepest, most primal part of himself—that if he finds him tonight…
He won’t let him go.
Not ever again.
—
Jisung’s breath comes in short, sharp gasps. The airport terminal is bright, almost too bright, making his head spin. He moves quickly, weaving through the crowd, his pulse hammering in his ears.
Keep going. Don’t look back. Just get the ticket and get out.
He clutches his phone, his sweaty fingers barely able to tap at the screen. His stomach twists violently. Every instinct in him screams that it’s too easy. That something is wrong.
He shakes it off.
He’s inside. He’s safe.
He pushes forward, reaching the check-in kiosks, his hands trembling as he pulls up his flight information. A one-way ticket to Busan. It’s not far enough, not nearly far enough, but it’s a start.
A fresh start. A place he can’t follow.
Or at least, that’s what he hopes.
The moment he presses confirm purchase, a chill rolls down his spine. The kind that has nothing to do with the air conditioning.
Jisung stills.
The hairs on the back of his neck rise.
He isn’t alone.
Slowly, stiffly, he lifts his head.
And his stomach drops.
He sees him immediately.
Standing just a few feet away, hands in his pockets, watching him.
He doesn’t look rushed. Doesn’t look out of place. To anyone else, he’s just another traveler. Calm. Relaxed. But Jisung knows better.
Knows that this was inevitable.
His lips curl into something that isn’t quite a smirk. He tilts his head slightly, the movement almost thoughtful.
“You really thought you could leave?”
Jisung’s chest tightens.
He glances around, searching for an escape, for a security guard, anyone—
He sighs. “Don’t.”
The single word is soft. Deceptively gentle. But there’s a weight to it, something dark and final that makes Jisung’s stomach twist.
He takes a step closer.
Jisung takes a step back.
His heart slams against his ribs.
His expression doesn’t change. He reaches into his pocket, pulling out something small and familiar. Jisung’s blood runs cold.
His passport.
Jisung’s breathing stutters. He had it. He knows he had it—
“How—”
The man twirls it between his fingers, flipping it open to Jisung’s photo. “I told you,” he murmurs, snapping it shut. “You don’t get to leave me.”
Jisung shudders.
He steps forward again, slow and deliberate.
Jisung doesn’t move this time. He can’t.
He leans toward Jisung, eyes scanning his face.
“Oh Jisung… you’re panicking.” His voice was calm, gentle.
Jisung could feel his heart absolutely slamming against his ribs, his lungs in overdrive.
“Take a deep breath for me.”
Jisung listens, takes as deep of a breath as he can.
He knows he needs to clam down if he wants to get out of this.
But then—
He leans in closer, voice quiet but sharp.
“I know you’re scared, but I won’t tell you again,” he murmurs. “If you ever try to run from me again, Jisung…”
His fingers ghost along Jisung’s wrist, barely touching, yet it makes his entire body lock up.
“You won’t live to regret it.”
Jisung sucks in a sharp breath. His vision tunnels.
He smiles. It’s not warm. It’s not kind. It’s possessive.
Jisung exhales shakily. “Why?” His voice is barely above a whisper, but he hears it. His expression doesn’t shift.
Jisung swallows hard, his hands curling into fists. “Why me?”
He hums, like he’s considering his answer. “Because you’re mine.”
Jisung flinches.
“That’s not—”
“It is,” he interrupts, voice softer now, more patient. “You just haven’t realized it yet.”
Jisung shakes his head, his pulse hammering. “I—I don’t even know your name.”
He blinks once.
Then, he smiles.
The kind of smile that sinks its teeth into you and doesn’t let go.
“Minho.”
Jisung’s stomach twists violently.
The man— Minho —reaches out, tucking a loose strand of hair behind Jisung’s ear, fingers grazing his skin. The touch is gentle. Intimate. Wrong.
“There,” he murmurs. “Now you do.”
Jisung exhales shakily. His body trembles.
Minho watches him carefully, like he’s waiting for something.
Then, he steps back.
“I’ll give you one more chance,” he murmurs. “Turn around. Go home.”
His fingers tighten on the passport.
“Or you won’t have a home to go back to.”
Jisung doesn’t move.
Minho raises an eyebrow. “Choose, Jisung.”
The terminal around them is full of people, full of noise, but Jisung hears nothing. Sees nothing but him.
His hands shake.
His breath stutters.
Then, slowly—
Jisung turns around.
And walks out of the airport.
Minho watches him go.
And smiles.
Because he won.
And Jisung knows—
He’ll never escape.
—
Jisung’s feet move before his mind catches up.
One step. Then another.
He doesn’t feel his legs. Doesn’t feel anything at all except the icy grip of fear locking his ribs in place. His heartbeat is too loud, his breath too uneven, his fingers trembling as they curl into fists.
He hears nothing. Not the announcements overhead. Not the hum of conversations. Not the distant roll of luggage wheels against tile.
Just him.
Minho’s presence lingers, heavy, suffocating, even as Jisung walks away.
He should be relieved. Should be grateful Minho let him go.
But Jisung knows better.
Knows Minho never lets him go.
The automatic doors slide open, and the night air rushes in, cool against his burning skin. Jisung steps outside, the bright artificial lights of the airport casting long shadows over the pavement.
He doesn’t stop. He can’t.
His hands shake as he fumbles for his phone, but his vision blurs at the edges, making the screen swim before his eyes. He doesn’t even know who he’s trying to call.
There’s no one left.
There’s no one left.
A car speeds past, headlights flashing. The world feels too big, too open, too exposed. He doesn’t know where to go.
He just knows he has to go.
Then—
A shadow moves behind him.
Jisung stiffens.
His breath catches, every muscle in his body locking up as something deep, something primal, something instinctual screams at him—
Run .
But he doesn’t.
He can’t.
Because he knows who it is.
Knows who it always is.
Slowly, so slowly, he turns.
And there he is.
Minho.
Standing a few feet away, hands still in his pockets, his dark eyes gleaming under the yellow haze of the streetlights.
Jisung’s throat goes dry.
“I told you to go home,” Minho says, his voice calm, measured, as if he’s disappointed.
Jisung swallows hard. “I—”
Minho tilts his head.
Jisung shuts his mouth.
For a moment, neither of them move.
Then, Minho exhales, stepping forward.
Jisung stumbles back immediately, his sneakers scuffing against the concrete. His stomach churns violently, panic clawing its way up his throat.
Minho stops. He watches. He waits.
Jisung’s breath stutters. “What do you want?”
Minho hums, like he’s considering it.
Then, softly—
“You.”
Jisung’s knees nearly give out.
Minho takes another step, slow, unhurried, like he knows Jisung won’t run. Like he’s daring him to.
Jisung grips his phone tighter. “Minho—”
Minho hums again. “I like the way you say my name.”
Jisung shudders.
His fingers twitch, hovering over his phone’s screen, but Minho doesn’t stop him. Doesn’t grab him.
Just watches.
Then—
“If you press that button,” Minho murmurs, “I’ll break your fingers.”
Jisung freezes.
Minho’s smile is slow, lazy, dangerous. “Do you understand?”
Jisung’s throat clenches.
He doesn’t move.
Doesn’t breathe.
Minho steps closer.
“You keep running,” he says, voice low, even. “But I always catch you.”
Jisung swallows thickly.
Minho’s head tilts. “Tell me, Jisung.”
Jisung’s skin prickles.
“What are you so afraid of?”
Jisung exhales shakily. His vision swims.
His own voice betrays him when he finally speaks—
“You.”
Minho’s smile widens.
His fingers brush against Jisung’s wrist. A ghost of a touch. Barely there.
And yet—
Jisung flinches.
Minho’s amusement flickers into something darker.
Something satisfied.
“Good.”
Then—
“You should be.”
Jisung’s breath shudders.
Minho exhales softly, like this is easy for him. Like Jisung isn’t standing here on the verge of collapse.
Then, he steps even closer, leaning in—
And whispers:
“If you try to run again, I will kill you.”
Jisung stops breathing.
Minho’s words settle into his bones like ice, chilling him from the inside out.
“If you try to run again, I will kill you.”
There’s no anger in his voice. No malice. Just certainty.
Jisung’s hands tremble at his sides. His phone feels useless in his grip. Even if he called for help, even if he screamed, what would it change?
Minho tilts his head slightly, watching him. His gaze flickers over Jisung’s face, drinking in every shattered emotion, every little tremor, every breath that comes too fast.
He likes this.
Jisung swallows hard, forcing himself to speak. “W-what do you w-want?”
Minho hums, his lips twitching like he’s amused by the question.
“You,” he says simply.
Jisung shudders.
Minho takes a step forward. Jisung takes a step back.
Minho’s smirk widens. “Where are you going, Jisung?”
Jisung’s breath stutters.
He doesn’t know .
He has nowhere to go.
The weight of that realization crashes over him like a tidal wave, threatening to drag him under.
Minho steps closer again, slow and unhurried, as if he already knows Jisung isn’t going anywhere.
He lifts a hand.
Jisung flinches violently.
Minho smiles.
His fingers don’t touch skin. They skim over the fabric of Jisung’s jacket, barely grazing his shoulder before falling away. But the threat in the motion is suffocating.
“I’ve been so patient with you,” Minho murmurs.
Jisung’s heartbeat slams against his ribs. His feet feel cemented to the ground.
Minho watches him carefully, dark eyes gleaming under the dim airport lights.
“But I’m done waiting.”
Jisung swallows hard, his stomach twisting. His voice is barely a whisper when he speaks.
“You—” He hesitates, pulse hammering. “You can’t just—keep me.”
Minho exhales softly. “Can’t I?”
Jisung’s breath shudders.
“You don’t get it yet, do you?” Minho murmurs, his tone almost gentle.
Jisung forces himself to meet his gaze.
And that’s a mistake.
Because Minho looks so certain. Like this isn’t a question. Like it’s already done.
His voice is quiet when he speaks again.
“You were mine the moment I saw you.”
Jisung’s pulse stutters.
Minho’s smirk fades into something softer, something more dangerous.
“And you’ll never belong to anyone else.”
Jisung shakes his head. “You’re—insane.”
Minho chuckles.
Then—he closes the space between them in one fluid movement.
Jisung gasps, stumbling back, but Minho’s hand shoots out.
Grabs his wrist.
Holds him still.
Panic explodes through Jisung’s chest.
Minho’s grip isn’t tight. Isn’t bruising. But it’s unchanging.
“You can run, Jisung,” Minho murmurs, voice low, dangerously close. “You can try.”
His fingers ghost over the inside of Jisung’s wrist, where his pulse is frantic, erratic, desperate.
His lips twitch.
“But you’ll never get away.”
Jisung’s breath is coming in short, uneven gasps. His free hand clenches into a fist, but he doesn’t move.
Can’t move.
Minho leans in just slightly, his voice a breath against Jisung’s skin.
“And we both know it.”
Jisung’s vision blurs at the edges.
Minho lets the moment stretch. Let’s Jisung feel the inevitability of it.
Then—he releases him.
Jisung stumbles back immediately, nearly tripping over his own feet.
Minho watches him, amusement flickering in his gaze.
“Go on,” he says, tilting his head. “Run again. Let’s see what happens.”
Jisung’s fingers twitch. His body screams at him to move.
But he doesn’t.
Because for the first time—
He believes Minho.
Jisung’s throat tightens. His ribs ache from how hard he’s breathing.
And Minho knows.
He sees the realization sink in.
Sees Jisung break just a little more.
He exhales softly.
“There’s my good boy.”
Jisung flinches.
Minho smiles.
And this time—
Jisung doesn’t run.