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“Couldn’t we have found something less revealing to wear?” you muttered, yanking down the ridiculously short skirt for the hundredth time. “Sorry, we had to. You need to blend in,” Go Eun’s soft voice cooed through your earpiece, not the least bit sorry. “You look fine,” came Mr. Kim’s smug voice, practically dripping with amusement.
You turned sharply, spotting him leaning casually in the corner, doing a piss-poor job of pretending not to enjoy the show. “Bastard,” you hissed under your breath. “Minji! Take this bottle to the VIP section!” someone shouted across the room. Of all the names Go Eun could’ve picked for your alias, she went with Minji?
“Yes, unnie,” you replied, flashing the fakest smile known to mankind as you grabbed the bottle, strutting toward the VIP with all the grace of someone trying not to trip in six-inch heels and regret. You still couldn’t believe you were in here.
Normally, you were the one behind the screens with Go Eun, tucked away in the van, fingers flying across keyboards, not strutting around in fishnets and a skirt that barely counted as legal. But of course, Ha-joon had to go and screw everything up with a goddamn car bomb, no less. Seriously. A car bomb? Who even does that anymore?
And naturally, the target was none other than Mr. Kim. The man survives death on a biweekly basis, but this one was too close. Way too close. So now, instead of sipping coffee and hacking surveillance feeds, you were playing bottle girl in six-inch heels, working your way through a place called The Black Sun, a club so exclusive it practically required a blood sacrifice to get through the front door.
You’d tracked Ha-joon here after tailing him for days, watching him slither through the shadows like he owned them. And when he slipped into The Black Sun without a single glance back, you knew you had no choice. Which brought you here, dolled up, pissed off, and wired with a mic, pretending to care whether someone wanted Grey Goose or Dom. And the worst part? This wasn’t even the mission. This was just the way in.
You knocked on the VIP room door, the bass from the club vibrating through your knuckles. “Come in!” someone shouted over the music, their voice muffled but impatient. You took a deep breath, the kind people take before walking into burning buildings and pushed the door open.
The strobe lighting hit first, then the thick perfume of smoke, sweat, and too much money. Laughter rang out, loud and forced. A group of men lounged on velvet sofas like they owned the city, their eyes already crawling over you before you even made it two steps in. Showtime.
You plastered on your best fake smile and delivered the cringe line the manager drilled into your skull during prep. “Here’s your cute bottle service!” you chirped, tossing in a finger heart that made your soul shrivel. Mentally, you were already launching yourself off a cliff.
The room responded with a mix of cheers and smirks. One of them raised a brow, clearly amused. Another one patted the seat next to him like you were a puppy. Your cheeks ached from all the fake smiling as you made your way to the velvet seat beside the creep of the night.
“What’s your name, pretty girl?” he slurred, his hand patting the top of your head like you were some obedient pet. The cheap blonde wig shifted slightly, but he was too drunk and too dumb to notice. You flashed another plastic smile. “Minji.”
“So pretty,” he murmured, eyes half-lidded as his friend tapped his shoulder and handed him another drink. He immediately turned to you, holding the glass out like it was some kind of royal offering. You waved it off, voice sweet as poison. “No, oppa, I can’t drink on the job.”
“One drink won’t hurt,” he pressed, his tone darkening with impatience. The smile on his face didn’t reach his eyes anymore. You could feel the room closing in just too many eyes, too many expectations, not enough exits. “I have to pee,” you blurted suddenly, standing up before he could get another word in.
You turned to walk toward the door, heels clicking like gunshots across the floor, just three more steps, two—Smack. A hard slap landed on your ass, echoing through the bass-heavy room. “Come back fast,” he called out with a smirk you wanted to wipe off with a crowbar.
You forced a tight-lipped smile over your shoulder and nodded, even as your hands clenched at your sides. One thing was certain: you weren’t leaving this club without burning something down first.
“You okay?” Go Eun’s voice crackled softly through your earpiece, concern threading her usually calm tone. “I’ll live,” you muttered, adjusting the wig and smoothing out your skirt as you slipped into the hallway. “I’m gonna check the other VIP rooms.” “I’m sweeping the first floor,” Mr. Kim’s voice cut in, calm as ever. “Copy,” you replied, already heading toward the nearest door.
The music thumped like a second heartbeat behind the walls, muffled but relentless. You reached for the gold handle and slipped into the room, eyes sharp, nerves tight. Empty. No people. No signs of Ha-joon. Just an explosion of bad taste with velvet everything, mirrored ceiling, gold trim like someone had vomited luxury without restraint.
“Did the person who decorated this room have any taste?” you whispered under your breath, nose wrinkling as you took a quick scan. No hidden doors. No surveillance equipment. You closed the door quietly.
You were heading toward the next VIP door when you heard the ding of the elevator. Shit. Your instincts kicked in fast—you bolted into the nearest room, heart thudding louder than the club’s bass. Eyes scanned frantically for cover. “Shit, shit, shit,” you muttered under your breath, diving into the bathroom and quietly shutting the door just as the main door creaked open.
Heels clacked against the marble floor, sharp and confident. A woman’s voice sliced clean through the air. “Bring me the ten-thousand-dollar bottle service.” “Yes, ma’am,” a smaller voice replied. Footsteps faded away. Then the soft click of the door closing again. You barely dared to breathe. Then her voice came again, lower now, colder.
“Can’t believe Ha-joon did all of this… for one dumb, stupid girl.” Girl? Your breath hitched. You leaned in, ear against the door, but she’d gone quiet. The silence stretched thin. You couldn’t hide in here forever. Time to act. You straightened the wig, braced yourself, then stumbled out of the bathroom like a clumsy idiot on borrowed heels.
“Oh my god—I’m so sorry!” you gasped, eyes wide with fake embarrassment. “I just—I really had to use the bathroom, I didn’t think anyone—” The woman turned sharply, eyes narrowing but only for a second. Then her expression softened into polite disinterest. “It’s okay. You can go.”
You smiled, bowed slightly, and walked out with your head down and your senses on full alert. Because now you knew. This wasn’t just about revenge. There was a girl at the center of all this and you had no idea who she was... but if Ha-joon was willing to kill for her, then you needed to find her. Fast.
You stepped into the basement, the chill of the concrete floor biting through your heels as the door closed behind you. “I think Ha-joon did all this for a girl,” you said, flopping into the seat next to Mr. Park. “But that’s all I got from last night. No name, no photo just that someone has him wrapped around her little finger.”
Mr. Park nodded slowly, deep in thought. “Something’s off inside that club,” Mr. Kim added, arms crossed as he leaned against the desk. He turned to you, and—of course, he was smiling. That smile. “No. No, no, no—I can’t do that again,” you said, already shaking your head like your life depended on it.
Mr. Kim raised an eyebrow. You threw your hands up. “Those men are creeps, Mr. Kim! I got smacked, offered weird drinks, and cornered in a room that looked like a fever dream.” He chuckled, infuriatingly calm. “Just one more time.” You glared at him. “That’s what you said last time.” He leaned in slightly, eyes glinting. “One last time.”
You stared at him, your silence doing all the screaming. But you knew, deep down, that the decision was already made. You were going back in. And this time, you were going in to crack whatever dark secret The Black Sun was hiding and maybe, just maybe, find out who the hell this girl was that Ha-joon was willing to burn everything for.
The car slowed two blocks from The Black Sun. The street pulsed with life the neon lights bleeding down rain-slicked pavement, bass rumbling through the air like a second heartbeat. The club loomed ahead, its blacked-out windows and velvet-rope entrance daring anyone uninvited to try their luck.
You sat in the back of the van, legs crossed, wrapped in the same disguise: blonde wig, plunging neckline, and heels that looked more like weapons than shoes. You hated how well it worked. Go Eun’s voice came through the earpiece, calm but sharp.
“Comms are live. You’re on grid.” “Remind me why I’m the one doing this again?” you asked dryly, adjusting your wig before stepping out. “Because you look terrifying in heels and no one’s dumb enough to question you when you smile like that,” Mr. Kim said from the passenger seat, not bothering to hide his grin.
You nodded and stepped out into the night, the air thick with humidity and tension. Mr. Kim followed after a beat, dressed sharp with clean lines, tailored suit, unassuming but lethal. He blended in like smoke. The perfect shadow. The bouncers didn’t even blink when you walked up.
Inside, the air was heavier than before like a perfumed smoke, bodies grinding to low, slow rhythms, and shadows watching from every corner. Mr. Kim leaned in just slightly as you descended the stairs to the lower levels. “Stay sharp,” he murmured.
“Yes, sir,” you said, turning on your heel and heading toward the office to report for duty. Windy was already waiting when you walked in, that same fake smile stretched tight across her face like a mask that didn’t quite fit. “VIP bottle service,” she said coolly, standing up from her chair. She didn’t wait for you to respond just turned, heels clicking, and wiggled her fingers in a silent command to follow.
You did. The hallway seemed darker this time, even with the strobes bleeding through the walls. You stayed a step behind her, hyper aware of every flicker of motion, every closed door you passed. “We’ve got some special VIP guests coming in tonight,” Windy said, her voice sharp and sweet, like glass dipped in honey. “You’ll be assigned to them.”
She stopped abruptly in front of the bar, turned to face you, and handed over two things: a sleek black masquerade mask and an expensive-looking champagne bottle nestled in its custom cradle. “You’ll be there to service them. Anything they ask, you do—no questions. No hesitation.” The mask felt cold in your hand. The bottle, heavier than it should’ve been.
Windy leaned in slightly, voice dropping to a near-whisper. “Put this on,” she said, her eyes fixed on yours. “And make damn sure nothing happens to that bottle.” Her gaze sharpened, the fake smile gone now. “Because if anything does... you’ll be the one paying for it. And trust me—” she stepped back, giving you a slow once-over, “—you wouldn’t want that.”
You nodded once, mechanical, and watched her walk off into the haze of neon and fog. You slipped the mask over your face, the satin strap tight against your skin, and followed the guards without a word. Their silence was heavier than the music pulsing beneath the floors, two stone-faced men flanking you like you were cargo, not company. Up the staircase, deeper into the club’s underbelly, you went.
The door to the VIP room opened with a low click, and a wave of heat, alcohol, and slurred laughter crashed into you. Drunken shouts echoed off marble and gold, the kind of laughter that came from people too rich to care about consequences.
You stepped in, heels silent against the plush carpet, and carefully placed the champagne bottle onto the massive silver ice bucket at the center of the glass table. The men barely noticed you too busy shouting over each other, clinking glasses, and slouching across leather couches like lions in silk.
You moved to the wall, standing quietly in the shadows, watching. Always watching. Your eyes swept the room, noting exits, cameras, spacing between the guests. And then you saw her. The woman from before. She was draped over the edge of the couch, the once razor-sharp edge in her posture now softened by too many drinks. Her lipstick was smudged, her laugh disjointed. A broken marionette in designer clothes. Still beautiful. Still dangerous.
The room buzzed with intoxicated laughter, the air thick with smoke, perfume, and secrets no one dared say out loud. The woman on the couch, her wineglass tipping dangerously close to spilling. She giggled, eyes half-lidded, drunk but not stupid. There was something else in her stare now. Restlessness.
“Where is he?” she slurred, drawing out the last word like it tasted expensive. “Bring Ha-joon… I want Ha-joon.” The room shifted. You felt it immediately. No one laughed. Not even the creeps who had been barking like hyenas five minutes ago. Her voice fell into silence like a stone into still water.
Someone stood and walked briskly toward the door without a word. That was the signal. You could feel your pulse behind your ears. Then—click. The door opened. And Ha-joon entered. Immaculately dressed, posture perfect, eyes clear and alert an unsettling contrast to the drunken ruin around him. He moved like he had all the time in the world and no one else was worthy of it.
No music. No talking. The room held its breath. He didn’t speak right away. Just walked slowly past the couches, taking in the faces one by one. Measuring. Weighing. His hands were clasped behind his back, like a professor entering a classroom filled with underachievers.
Then his eyes settled on her. The woman on the couch straightened a bit, suddenly aware of how vulnerable she looked. “Did you ask for me?” Ha-joon’s voice was smooth chillingly soft, almost affectionate. But it didn’t soothe. It curdled. She let out a weak laugh. “You’re late.”
“I come when I’m needed,” he replied, tone still gentle, but laced with steel. “Not when I’m begged for.” She shrank slightly, smile cracking. You didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Ha-joon’s eyes flicked over to you for half a second, just enough to make your stomach twist.
The room had barely settled from his arrival when the woman on the couch let out a slow, exaggerated sigh, swirling the drink in her glass with a lazy flick of her wrist. “Ha-joon-ah,” she purred, dragging out the syllables like she owned them. Her lipstick was smeared. Her voice too loud. “Show me something fun. You used to be so... entertaining.”
A low chuckle followed, and she leaned forward, eyes glittering with drunken delight. “Fight someone for me.” The room tensed again. She wasn’t joking. “Fight?” Ha-joon repeated softly, blinking once. “Why?” “Because I’m bored,” she pouted. “And you were always so good at it.” Her voice turned singsong, teasing: “Or are you too soft now?”
You could feel the weight shift in the room. The guards glanced at each other, unsure. No one moved. No one breathed. Except Ha-joon. He smiled. A quiet, effortless curl of his lips. Not playful. Predatory. “For you?” he said, voice like silk wrapped around a blade. “Always.”
And then he turned. He didn’t ask for a volunteer. He simply chose. The nearest guard tall, built like a bouncer straight from central casting, stood frozen for half a second too long. That was enough. Ha-joon stepped in, fast and fluid, and drove his fist into the man’s gut with surgical precision. The guard wheezed, doubling over. Before he could react, Ha-joon’s knee collided with his chin, sending him sprawling backward over the edge of the couch.
The woman clapped like it was a stage performance, her laughter shrill and delighted. “Again!” she squealed. Another guard moved forward, anger flashing in his eyes. Stupid. Ha-joon ducked his swing, pivoted, and caught him by the throat, slamming him against the mirrored wall with a bone-shaking thud. The mirror spiderwebbed behind his head as Ha-joon whispered something too quiet for you to hear.
Then he let the man drop. Blood on the floor now. Two guards groaning. The third one backed away smart enough to realize this wasn’t a game. Not really. But the woman? She was giggling. Giggling like a child in a toy store. “That’s the Ha-joon I remember,” she cooed, reclining again, eyes glazed with wine and power. “Such a good little killer.”
He turned. And for a moment; just a breath his eyes locked with yours. Time stilled. You froze, spine straight, breath held behind the mask. Every nerve in your body braced for recognition, for the tilt of his head, the narrowing of his gaze, the cruel little smile that said, I see you. But it didn’t come.
His eyes flickered over you and then moved on. Dismissive. Like you were just another ornament in the room. You let yourself breathe. Slowly. Silently. But your heart didn’t settle. Because something in his gaze hadn’t felt accidental. It was too clean, too fast. Like he’d already looked once and was pretending not to look again.
And that flicker? That flicker wasn’t confusion. It was calculation. You kept your posture relaxed, eyes lowered, the mask a poor shield against the weight of his presence. He turned back to the couch, to his performance, to the woman still giggling like the blood on the floor was part of the show.
But deep inside, beneath the surface of your skin, you felt it. He knew. Or worse….He suspected. And that was far more dangerous.
You were finally dismissed from the VIP room, the heavy door shutting behind you with a dull thud that echoed in your chest like relief. Your heels clicked against the hallway floor as you walked, steady but fast. You turned the corner, heart still racing, and ducked into a narrow side corridor that was half-hidden behind a velvet curtain. Just enough privacy.
You pressed your finger to the mic embedded in your earpiece. “Go Eun, can you hear me?” Static. You adjusted the wire discreetly and tried again. “Go Eun, come on. I think he— I think Ha-joon saw me. Just confirm if you're still on the feed.” Nothing. Just silence and the dull throb of bass vibrating through the walls.
You exhaled through your nose, sharp and quiet. You were officially cut off. You pulled out the burner phone to try the secondary line but before you could even dial, you heard heels. Sharp. Fast. Coming straight toward you. You turned just in time to see Windy.
She spotted you instantly, eyes narrowing as if she'd known exactly where to look. “The boss is looking for you,” she said, her voice clipped, almost bored. You blinked. “Me? Why would he be looking for me?” Windy rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. “I don’t care why. He asked for you. That’s all I need to know.” You tried to stall, just enough to think, but she wasn’t having it. She grabbed your arm and shoved you toward the hallway. “Don’t make him wait.”
You tried Go Eun again. Then Mr. Kim. Nothing. Just dead air. Panic started to creep into your chest, cold and slow. You stopped in front of the office door, staring at the polished wood like it might swallow you whole. Your knuckles hovered for half a second before you knocked, three quick raps.
A voice came from inside, calm and too casual. “Come in.” You pushed the door open, stepped inside, and closed it behind you. Then you heard it. “You think I wouldn’t recognize you?” A low laugh followed. “Seriously?” Your eyes snapped up. Ha-joon.
Seated behind a desk of dark lacquered wood, the soft light casting deep shadows over his face. But his eyes were fixed on you with razor-sharp precision. “I... I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you said, voice barely holding steady.
You took a small step backward, subtle, trying to widen the space between you. Just in case. His smile faded. “You can’t lie to me.” His voice was colder now, tinged with something darker, something slipping just beneath the surface. “No,” you said, shaking your head, “I think you’ve got the wrong person. I don’t know who you think I am, but I’m not—”
You turned, hand already reaching for the doorknob. SLAM. His hand crashed down beside your head, palm flattening against the wood just inches from your ear. You froze. Your breath caught. The thud echoed like a gunshot. Your eyes stared ahead, locked on the wooden door, heart jackhammering in your chest. His body pressed in behind you, not touching but close enough to feel his presence pour into your skin.
“You think you can hide in the shadows,” he whispered against your ear. “But you can’t hide from me.” You tensed, every muscle locking tight. He was close. Too close. And your only way out was the door you couldn’t open. Not yet. Not while his hand was still there. Not while his voice was dropping lower. More dangerous. “You should’ve stayed behind the screen,” he said. “Where it was safe.”
His hand snapped into your hair. Before you could react, your head was slammed into the door. Hard. A sharp burst of light exploded behind your eyes as your vision flickered, stars dancing across your skull. He pulled back to do it again, fury radiating off him like heat. But you struck first.
You whipped your head back, hard, your skull cracking into his nose with a sickening crunch. He reeled, stumbling back with a strangled grunt, one hand flying to his face. You spun, adrenaline surging, and drove your heel into his chest with a high, brutal kick. The impact sent him crashing backward, landing hard on the floor between the desk and the wall.
You didn’t wait. You turned, eyes locked on the door, and lunged for the knob. Too slow. His snarl cut through the room. Feral. “You fucking bitch!” You didn’t even get the door halfway open before he was on you again.
He grabbed your hair, again jerking you back with such force you hit the floor sideways, shoulder cracking against the polished wood. Pain bloomed across your ribs as the air punched out of your lungs. What the fuck was his obsession with your hair? You tried to scramble up, but he moved fast. Too fast.
He straddled your back, one knee pressing down into your spine, pinning you to the floor. You clawed at the wood, struggling, but he leaned in close, his breath hot against your ear. "You're not special," he hissed. "You think you matter? You're just another little whore playing spy in a world that was never yours."
You bucked under him, teeth clenched, rage flaring, but he slammed your head down but not hard enough to knock you out. Just enough to humiliate. "Pathetic," he whispered, twisting your arm behind your back. "You came here thinking you were the hunter. But you're just bait."
He pressed down harder, grinding his weight into your spine. "Was the mission worth it? Getting dressed up, playing bottle girl, pretending you could survive in my world?" Your fingers inched toward your heel. Your blade was still there. You just needed a second. Half a second.
Your fingers brushed against the smooth leather sheath strapped to your ankle. You found the handle. Click. The sound was barely audible, but it was the promise of an escape. In a flash, you yanked the blade free and twisted hard beneath him. The knife sliced across his arm. He shouted, more surprise than pain and reared back.
You didn’t hesitate. You rolled out from under him, came up fast, and slashed wide. He dodged but not cleanly. Blood streaked across his crisp white shirt, vivid against the black. You charged. Fast. Ruthless.
Your blade danced, a blur of precise arcs and sharp angles. He blocked the first, ducked the second, but the third grazed his side and made him stumble. You kept coming. A spinning kick caught him across the jaw. He crashed into the bookshelf behind him, glass shattering, bottles of liquor spilling to the floor. You didn’t let up. You grabbed his collar, slammed his head into the edge of the desk but he wasn’t finished.
With a roar, Ha-joon caught your wrist mid-swing, twisting it until the blade fell from your grip and clattered to the floor. Then he struck. A savage punch to your ribs. Another to your jaw. Your vision blurred. He grabbed you by the throat and slammed you backward, your spine crashing into the wall, knocking the air out of your lungs. You tried to knee him, but he was ready, he blocked, caught your leg, and drove you down hard across the table.
Your blade. Still there. You reached for it but you were too slow. He grabbed it first. He pressed the cold steel to your neck as your chest heaved against the table. Your hands gripped the edges, fury burning through every nerve, but your body had limits and it had reached them.
His voice was ice. “You know what your problem is?” he said, leaning close, breath brushing your ear. “You thought being tough made you untouchable.” He dragged the blade across your skin just enough to sting. “It’s cute, really. All this training. All this rage. And yet... here you are. Bent over. Beaten and powerless.”
You didn’t respond. You wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. But he kept talking because men like him always did. “You never belonged in this world,” he sneered. “This is a place built by men who understand power. Not little girls pretending to be heros.” His hand pressed between your shoulder blades, holding you down with deliberate force.
"Hello?!" Go Eun’s voice shrieked through your earpiece, sharp and panicked. Your eyes snapped open. "Go Eun—help!" you screamed, voice cracking as Ha-joon’s weight pressed harder into your back, the cold kiss of your own blade still biting against your neck. "Mr. Kim’s on his way!" she shouted.
That was the only warning. CRASH! The door exploded inward with splinters flying, hinges ripped clean from the frame. Mr. Kim. He stormed in like a hurricane in a suit, eyes locked on Ha-joon with a look that promised pain. Ha-joon barely had time to stand before Mr. Kim was on him. Fist to jaw. Knee to ribs.
The two men collided like titans, brutal, precise, and absolutely merciless. You rolled to the side, gasping for air, pulling yourself upright as the table cracked from the weight of their struggle. Blades flashed. Blood hit the walls. Ha-joon moved like a viper, fast and surgical but Mr. Kim moved like a weapon. Heavy. Ruthless. Built for destruction.
He blocked a slash, spun Ha-joon, and slammed him into the wall, a picture frame shattering on impact.
"You should’ve stayed dead," Ha-joon growled, he laughed, blood running from his lip. “You think you can protect her? You can’t even protect yourself.” He surged forward again, and the fight continued fast, close-range, all elbows and bone-snapping strikes. Furniture collapsed. A bottle shattered near your feet. You backed away, one hand clutching your ribs, adrenaline dragging your limbs into motion.
“Get out of here!” Mr. Kim’s voice boomed. You didn’t hesitate. You bolted, stumbling through the remains of the broken door, into the corridor lit by flickering red strobes. Down the hall. Down the stairs. The pounding of your heart drowned out everything else.
The walls of The Black Sun blurred around you, rooms full of monsters, mirrors smeared with lies, lights that never reached the corners. You didn’t stop. Not until you were out the service exit, the night air hitting your face like a slap.
You stumbled into the alley behind The Black Sun, lungs burning, legs barely holding you up. Your hand clung to the cold brick wall for balance, knuckles scraped, breath coming in shallow gasps. But then the shouting. It was close. Too close.
You pushed off the wall and sprinted in the opposite direction, boots pounding against wet pavement, shadows stretching like claws beneath the flickering streetlights. “Go Eun,” you gasped, pressing your earpiece. “Pick me up—I’m on the back end side of the club.” “Where’s Mr. Kim?” she demanded, her voice sharp, filled with panic. Before you could answer he was there.
Mr. Kim appeared from the shadows like a ghost, face grim, blood on his sleeve, breath heaving. “Run,” he said. That was all. You didn’t ask questions. You turned and ran. The city swallowed you whole, neon lights pulsing like a heartbeat behind your eyes. You didn’t know if Ha-joon was behind you or not. But you didn’t dare look back.
You tore through the narrow backstreets, the slick pavement reflecting strobes of red and blue from some neon signs. Trash bins blurred past. The stink of oil and sweat and smoke clung to everything. “Go Eun, where are you?!” you shouted into the earpiece. “Thirty seconds out!” her voice crackled. “Hold on—Mr. Park’s with me. Mr. Choi is circling!”
Your chest burned. Your ribs screamed. But you didn’t stop. You turned a corner, nearly slipped, and spotted headlights cutting through the fogged alley up ahead. A black van. Engine rumbling like a beast. Doors already swinging open. You sprinted toward it.
Go eun stood outside, one hand braced against the open door, scanning the shadows . Mr. Choi was in the front seat, eyes darting between mirrors, his fingers twitching over the gearshift, ready to floor it. Mr.Park leaned out the passenger window, face pale, terror written across it. “Come on!” he yelled.
But just as your foot hit the edge of the alley. “They’re following!” Go Eun screamed. You scrambled to the van’s side door, flung it open, and hauled yourself in. “Drive!” you choked out. Mr. Choi didn’t wait.
You collapsed against the wall, gasping, blood on your lip, your blade still trembling in your hand. You were safe. For now.
“Since he knows Mr. Kim is still alive… what’s the plan now?” you asked, voice low but tight, barely holding back the tremor beneath your words. No one answered right away. The air in the basement was heavy and thick with blood and silence. The metal table in the center still bore scratches from the last mission. The hum of fluorescent lights above buzzed in rhythm with your nerves.
Mr. Jang leaned back slightly in his chair, exhaling through his nose. “I think… we should lay low for a while,” he said calmly, as if discussing the weather. “Lay low?” you snapped. Go Eun stood up beside you. “That’s your plan? Just wait? After what he did?”
You turned, voice rising. “He knew I was there. He had his hands on me—he was going to kill me!” Your hands trembled at your sides. You couldn’t tell if it was rage or leftover adrenaline. Probably both.
Mr. Jang raised a hand. “Hey,” he said gently, eyes locking with yours. “Look at me.” You did. “You survived. You got out. That means we have time. And that’s more than most people get with Ha-joon on their tail.” Your breathing slowed just slightly. The walls weren’t closing in as fast. But the fire in your chest still flickered hot.
“So we wait?” you asked bitterly. “Wait for him to make the next move?” Mr. Jang didn’t answer immediately. He just looked at you. “We don’t walk blind into fire. Not unless we’re ready to burn.” You stared back at him, then shook your head and stepped away.
“Fine,” you muttered. “I’m going home.” No one stopped you. You walked out of the basement and into the night air, but it felt no different from the basement’s shadows, just a bit colder. The city lights were dimmer now. Every alley whispered his name and every footstep behind you felt like a shadow just out of reach. And home? Home didn’t feel safe anymore. But it was all you had.
You didn’t remember the walk to your apartment. You just remembered the feeling of your fingers locking the door behind you. Once. Twice. The deadbolt. Chain. Extra latch. Still not enough. The hallway light flickered once before steadying. You stood there in the dark entryway, coat still on, blade still tucked inside your boot, eyes scanning your own home like it was unfamiliar territory.
The silence was too much. You moved through the apartment slowly, checking the corners even though you knew no one was there. Living room. Bathroom. Closet. Under the bed. Still. Empty. But that didn’t stop your pulse from skipping every time the floor creaked beneath your own weight.
You tossed your coat onto the couch and sank onto the edge of your bed, but your muscles wouldn’t let go. Every nerve was still tight, your hands curled like they were ready to fight something that wasn’t there. You checked your windows twice. Then again. You told yourself it was just habit but it didn’t feel like habit anymore.
The wind rattled something outside, a loose vent or a balcony chair maybe, and you jumped eyes snapping to the sound like it was a gunshot. Then silence again. You moved to the kitchen. Opened the fridge. Stared. Closed it. You weren’t hungry. You weren’t anything. You were just awake.
A door slammed somewhere down the hall, it was probably your neighbor. You froze. Every hair on your body stood on edge. Your hand moved automatically to your blade, drawing it as you inched toward your peephole. You looked. Nothing. Still your gut whispered otherwise. You paced your apartment three times. Every creak in the floorboards felt louder than it should’ve. The fridge humming sounded like it was breathing.
You sheathed your blade and let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. It shook a little on the way out. Your fingers trembled as you reached for the hem of your shirt, peeling away the tension and sweat of the night one layer at a time. The bathroom was dim, lit only by the warm, amber glow of the vanity bulb. You turned the faucet until the water was steaming, fogging the edges of the mirror, and stepped inside.
The first hit of heat was shocking. Then it melted everything. The bruises. The panic. The way his voice still echoed somewhere in the back of your mind. The water slid down your spine, across your shoulders, washing away the filth of The Black Sun….the blood, the perfume, the fear.
You braced your hands against the tile and let your head hang, eyes closed, listening only to the water crashing against porcelain. Each droplet felt like it was rinsing something deeper than skin. The pounding in your ears softened. Your shoulders dropped a fraction. Your breath finally started to slow, syncing with the rhythm of falling water. Safe. For now.
Steam curled around your legs, hugged your body in warmth you hadn't felt in days. You tilted your head back, letting the water pour across your face, your lashes, your lips. Silence filled the room, but it was different now and not suffocating, just safe. For the first time since leaving that room, you weren’t gripping anything.
You were just breathing. And that was enough. You stayed under the water until your skin was warm and flushed, your nerves dulled, your mind just quiet enough to feel human again.
The water cascaded down your shoulders in steady waves, and for just a moment, you forgot. Forgot the blood. Forgot the mask. Forgot the way Ha-joon’s breath had scraped against your ear like a threat carved in silence. You reached for the soap, fingers gliding across wet tile when everything went black. The light above you died.
The hum of electricity vanished. You stood frozen beneath the still-pounding water, your breath catching as the bathroom filled with silence. No water heater hum. No pipe groan. Nothing. Just... stillness. Then your skin prickled.
The kind of primal sensation that needed no explanation. Someone was here. You moved fast. Snapping off the faucet, you shoved the shower door open and grabbed the towel from the rack, wrapping it tightly around you with one hand as the other slid instinctively down to your thigh reaching for where your blade should have been. Gone.
Still in the bedroom. The mirror was fogged, the air thick with steam. You wiped a streak with your palm and stared out. Nothing. But you felt it. That eerie weight. That invisible pressure behind your eyes. Like something was watching you just outside the edges of your vision.
Your heartbeat roared in your ears, loud and wild. You stepped out onto the mat slowly, water dripping from your hair, the tile cold beneath your feet. Then—A creak. Outside the bathroom. The floorboard just past the hallway. You weren’t alone. Not anymore.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk…” The sound sliced through the silence like a knife. Your heart stopped. That voice. Ha-joon. “Ha-joon…?” you whispered, breath catching. “Oh god…” “Why don’t you come on out,” he said smoothly, his tone all mockery and velvet malice, “and we can have a little chat.” You backed away from the door, clutching your towel tighter, pulse hammering in your throat. “Ha-joon—get the fuck out of my house.”
“No can do, baby,” he said, his voice dropping into a purr. You heard it then. Tap… tap… tap. His fingers against the bathroom door. A slow rhythm meant to drive you mad. “I called the police,” you said quickly, the lie spilling out on instinct. “They’ll be here any second.”
A beat of silence. Then a laugh. “With what?” he asked. “Your phone?” Another pause. “I have it, love.” Your stomach twisted. He had your phone. You scanned the bathroom, looking for anything, anything you could use but his next words rooted you to the floor.
“If you don’t come out in five seconds… I’ll go for Go Eun.” Silence. “Maybe I should make her famous. Like her big sister.” Your entire body went cold. The floor fell out from beneath you. “Ha-joon,” you whispered, voice breaking. “Don’t.” Something in your tone cracked and he heard it.
His tapping stopped. Then his voice, suddenly quiet and serious: “Then you should listen to me.” You heard the shift in his posture. The weight behind the door. And then he started counting. “One...” You backed away until you hit the cold tile wall, eyes wild. “Two…” You looked toward the bathroom window too small and too high. “Three…” No weapon. No phone. No time. “Four…” You pressed your hand over your mouth to keep from screaming. “Five—”
You had no choice. Your fingers trembled as they reached for the handle. The door creaked open slowly, the steam curling out like breath from a dying mouth. And there he was. Ha-joon. Standing in your hallway like he belonged there. Dressed in a tailored black suit, crisp shirt open at the collar. Not a hair out of place. Calm. Cold. And smiling.
His eyes raked over you, slow and deliberate, making your skin crawl beneath the thin towel wrapped tightly around your body. You felt exposed not just naked. Taken apart under his gaze. You couldn’t look at him. Your eyes dropped to the floor, fixed on the grain of the wood between your feet.
He stepped closer. Your breath hitched. His fingers lifted, ghosting across your damp shoulder, slow, patient. You flinched, but he didn’t stop. His touch trailed up along your neck, until two fingers hooked gently under your chin. And tilted your face up.
“Eyes on me, love,” he whispered. You resisted. Just for a second. Then your gaze met his. Dark eyes. Unblinking. Hungry not with lust, but with power. Like he was savoring this moment, holding it between his teeth. He tilted his head slightly, studying you like a painting he already knew how to ruin. “There she is,” he murmured. And you stood there, paralyzed, heart pounding against the towel like it wanted to break free to try to run or hide. But there was nowhere left to go.
“Where’s your bedroom?” he asked, voice casual. That single question turned your blood to ice. You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. “Ha-joon…” you whispered, panic bleeding through your voice. “Please… don’t.” He laughed. But the sound didn’t last. It cut off, sharp, clean and when he looked at you again, the smile was gone. Cold. Dead. Without warning, his hand twisted in your damp hair.
You yelped as he yanked, dragging you forward, your bare feet slipping against the floor as you struggled to stay upright. The towel clung to your body, your only shield. “Wait—stop” you gasped through gritted teeth, digging your fingers into his wrist.
He didn’t stop walking. His grip tightened. He dragged you down the hall like he was walking through a blueprint of your life. Past the photos. Past the lights you always left on. Straight to the door you always kept shut. “I was trying to be nice,” he added, almost conversational, as if your fear was an inconvenience.
You clawed at his hand, but he didn’t flinch. “You should’ve let me in the easy way.” And the door to your bedroom opened like it had been waiting for him. He shoved you through the door, and you stumbled, hitting the floor hard, palms slapping against the wood as the towel threatened to slip. “Stand,” he said. You didn’t move. “Stand up,” he repeated, his voice sharp.
You rose on shaky legs, your body trembling despite the heat still clinging to your skin. His eyes followed every movement, slow, unblinking, devouring. You wrapped your arms around yourself, shrinking beneath that gaze. “Ha-joon… let’s talk,” you said, barely above a whisper. “We can figure this out. Please.”
He tilted his head, mocking the idea before the words even finished. “Talk?” he echoed, almost amused. “No, hun. We’re past that.” You stood there, frozen. Every second stretched thin, every heartbeat loud.
“Take it off.” The words landed like a slap. Your breath gone. “Ha-joon, stop this. Please.” Silence. And then he stilled. The amusement drained from his face like blood. He stepped forward, slow and quiet, until the air between you buzzed with heat and hate.
“I have two men at Go Eun’s apartment,” he said flatly. “Right now.” Your mouth opened, no sound came out. “If you don’t do exactly what I say,” he continued, each word deliberate, venomous, “I’ll give them the word to go inside.” He leaned in close, lips nearly brushing your ear. “Maybe I’ll let them make her famous. Just like her sister.”
The room tilted. Your stomach twisted. Your knees nearly buckled. “Don’t,” you choked out. “Ha-joon, please don’t do this.” He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes. Cold. Steady. “Then listen. And obey.” You stood, breath shallow, throat tight, your world crumbling beneath you because this wasn’t just about you anymore. And he knew it.
Your fingers trembled at your sides. You stood there, frozen in place, heart pounding so hard it echoed in your ears. The weight of Ha-joon’s threat pressed into your chest like a stone. Go Eun. Her name rang in your skull louder than his voice. You saw her face…bright and terrified.
You had no choice. Not really. Your breath shook as you slowly loosened your grip on the towel. It slipped from your fingers. It fell in silence and it hit the floor like a verdict. You didn’t look at him.
Your eyes stayed locked on a crack in the floorboards, wide and glossy, your vision blurring around the edges. You felt naked not just in body, but in soul. Stripped down to something small, trembling, exposed beneath the weight of a man who didn’t see a person but only power to take. The air in the room felt colder. Thicker. You could feel his eyes on you. Watching. Consuming. But he said nothing. Not yet. And in that silence, your body trembled and your mind screamed.
He stepped forward, slow and deliberate, eyes raking over your body with an expression that made your skin crawl. Like you were his prize. Like he had earned you. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, the words slipping from his mouth like poison wrapped in silk. He didn’t say it like a compliment. He said it to you like you were a possession.
He just stood there, staring, breathing in the moment like he wanted to burn it into his memory, your exposed skin, your silence. Then, without warning, his hand rose. You flinched but it wasn’t a strike. Not quite. His palm rested heavily on the top of your head. And then he pressed. Down. Firm. Unrelenting.
You staggered back a step but he followed, guiding you down with slow, terrifying patience. The pressure on your skull increased as your knees hit the cold floor. The towel at your feet. Your bare skin against the silence. You didn’t dare look up.
Not because you feared what you’d see but because you feared what he’d make you become if you met his gaze. The room felt smaller now. Airless. He didn’t need chains or cuffs. Just silence. And fear.
“God…” he breathed, laughter curling in his throat as he looked down at you. “You look so helpless.” You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. And then he laughed soft at first, then sharper, more unhinged, his hand covering his mouth like he was trying to hold it in, like he was genuinely amused by the wreck he had made of you.
“That’s because you are,” he said, still giggling, voice muffled behind his palm. “You are helpless.” The words hung in the air like smoke. Your knees ached against the cold floor, but you barely felt it. You felt his gaze more than anything else….crawling across your skin like fire beneath ice.
He wasn’t angry anymore. He was entertained. Like a child pulling the wings off something delicate just to see if it would squirm. There was no mercy in him. Just the thrill of control. And you could feel it closing in around you like a noose.
He stared down at you, eyes locked with yours..unblinking, predatory. And then his hands moved to his belt. Slowly. Deliberately. The sound of the buckle sliding free echoed far too loudly in the quiet room, sharp and final. He didn’t look away from you, not for a second. His gaze bored into you, feeding on the fear he saw in you and the silence you’d been forced into.
You were frozen. Breathing shallow. Your heartbeat thundered in your ears, drowning everything else out. He wasn’t rushing. He wanted you to feel it. Every second. Every shift. Every inch of control he peeled away. There was no lust in his eyes just only power. And in that moment, with you on your knees and him towering above, you weren’t a person to him. You were proof. Proof that he could break you. That he owned this moment.
His eyes never left yours as he freed himself from his pants, tapping his tip against your lips. "Open, baby." The command slithered out, low and venomous. Your breath hitched every instinct screamed to pull away, but the weight of his gaze pinned you in place.
A jagged smile curled his lips as he pressed closer. "And if you bite me..." His thumb dragged along your jaw, possessive and cruel. "...I’ll make sure my boys show Go eun a real good time." The threat hung in the air, thick as the scent of his sweat. Your stomach twisted. You knew exactly what he wasn’t saying.
Your mouth fell open, just enough and he pushed in with a low, satisfied hum, like he’d been waiting years for this: you on your knees, lips stretched around him, choking on his weight. He started slow, savoring the way your throat fluttered in pathetic little spasms, but patience wasn’t his virtue. Not when you looked up at him with those wet, pleading eyes.
“Good girl,” He cooed, thumb tracing your jaw before his grip turned vicious. “But let’s be honest—this is all you’re good for, isn’t it?” Then he fucked your mouth in earnest, brutal and unrelenting, each thrust punctuated by the wet, gagging sounds you couldn’t suppress. His free hand knotted in your hair, yanking just to watch tears spill over.
“Look at you,” he sighed, voice dripping with mock sympathy. “Such a pretty thing. Shame no one will ever want you for anything but this.” The words slithered under your skin, sticky and sour, as his pace turned punishing. You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. You just had to take it, his smirk seemed to say because what else were you made for?
His grip tightened in your hair, forcing your head back, your throat opening helplessly as he shoved himself deeper. Tears pricked at your eyes, but blinking only made them spill, hot and humiliating. “That’s it,” he cooed, voice thick with condescension. “You don’t even need to try, do you? Just a hole that knows its place.”
The stretch burned, your gag reflex fluttering wildly as he fucked into your mouth with brutal precision. Every choked sound you made only seemed to amuse him more. “God, you’re pathetic,” he mused, thumb brushing your cheek in a cruel parody of tenderness. “But at least you’re good for this.”
You felt him pulse, hot and insistent, before he came down your throat with a low groan, not giving you a choice but to swallow. When you coughed, struggling, he tutted, fingers tightening warningly. “None of that,” he chided, dragging himself over your tongue one last time, smearing the mess. “You’ll take it. You always do.”
Pulling away, he looked down at you lips swollen, eyes wet, breath ragged and smiled. “See? Perfect for nothing. And so eager to prove it.”
You coughed as he pulled out of your mouth, his grip unrelenting. "Ha-joon, you got what you wanted. Please, just leave—and leave Go eun alone! She’s innocent!" you begged, hands clasped together, trembling. He laughed, a low, cruel sound that slithered down your spine. Crouching to your level, his breath hot against your ear, he murmured, "If you think that was it, baby….you’ve got it all wrong."
Your eyes widened. Before you could react, he stood abruptly, fingers tangling in your hair. A sharp yank, your body lurched forward, the world spinning then the brutal impact of the bed beneath you. Your chest hit the mattress hard, knocking the air from your lungs. You couldn’t move, couldn’t turn.
And then he was on you. The rough fabric of his clothes scraped against your bare back, a cruel reminder of your own nakedness. You felt small. Too small. The weight of him pressed you deeper into the mattress, his presence suffocating. Every ragged breath you took was laced with the scent of him musky and oppressive.
Your skin prickled. Fear coiled tight in your stomach. Somewhere in the back of your mind, a voice screamed but all you could do was lie there, heart hammering, as his fingers traced a slow, mocking path down your spine.
"Did you know I started this whole undercover bullshit because of you?" His voice was a blade dragged along your spine…soft, but sharp enough to draw blood. Your thoughts scattered. What?
He leaned closer, his breath a sickening warmth against your ear. "I saw you one day, completely by chance. You were stepping out of the Rainbow Taxi building, laughing at something stupid, probably. That smile of yours…" His thumb pressed into your back, mimicking the memory. "The kind that makes men rewrite their morals. And I—" A pause. A fractured laugh. —I think I did. Rewrite everything. For you."
His grip on your hair loosened, just enough to trail down the back of your neck in a mockery of tenderness. "So I had to know who you were. Had to get close. And you…" His voice dropped, almost reverent. "You were so fucking sweet to me. Remember? That rainy afternoon when I ‘forgot’ my umbrella, and you insisted on sharing yours? Your arm brushed against mine, and you apologized like you’d committed a crime." A humorless chuckle. "Or when you brought me that coffee with extra sugar, just how I pretended to like it because I ‘looked tired.’ You cared. No one fucking cares like that."
His fingers dug into your skin suddenly, yanking you back to the present. "And then I saw you with Mr. Kim. The way you looked at him like he hung the stars. Like he deserved you." His voice twisted, guttural. "So I had to take him out. But that crafty motherfucker… he just wouldn’t die." A slow, deliberate exhale against your neck. "He won’t survive this time." "Ha-joon, please—" You choked on the words, hands clawing at his wrist. "I’ll listen, I’ll do anything! Just don’t hurt them!"
"Anything?" He tilted his head, feigning curiosity. "Then you’ll become mine. No contact with your precious family. No more pathetic little missions. You breathe when I say breathe, smile when I say smile." His lips grazed your temple. "And if you obey… I’ll let them live."
The unspoken threat coiled between you: For now.
“Yes,” you begged. “Good girl,” he said. His approval slithered over you, sticky and patronizing. A reward for surrender. A mockery of praise. “Okay, let’s see how nice you are.” His hands gripped your ass, spreading you wide, no preamble, no tenderness. Just ownership. You felt the blunt pressure of his tip against your most intimate flesh, and “Oh, fuck—” he hissed as he shoved inside, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal stroke.
Your fingers twisted into the sheets, the same fabric that once brought you comfort now strangling your knuckles white. He used your body like an anchor, dragging you back onto him whenever you tried to recoil. “Tight little thing, aren’t you?” He leaned down, teeth scraping your ear. “Fuck, you feel so fucking good. Could stay inside you forever.” A wet, open-mouthed kiss against your shoulder. “Was gonna go easy on this pussy, but no—you’re made for this. Made to take it.”
Then he moved. No rhythm. No mercy. Just pure, punishing friction, his hips slamming into you like he was trying to carve himself into your bones. “That’s it—squeeze me like that,” he grunted, fingers digging bruises into your hips. “God, you’re even prettier when you’re used.”
Every thrust punched a whimper from your throat. You couldn’t tell if it was pain or shame or some sick, traitorous spark of pleasure and that wrecked you. “Don’t worry, baby,” he panted, voice thick with condescension. “You’ll learn to love it. By the time I’m done, you won’t even remember how to think without me in you.”
The heat in the room was suffocating or maybe that was just him. You could feel it, the inevitable, and you tried to twist away, but his hands were already on you, flipping you onto your back like you weighed nothing. Before you could even gasp, he was inside you again, his grip seizing your throat in one brutal motion.
"I just need to see your face when you cum around me, huh, baby?" His voice was a dark, mocking drawl, fingers tightening just enough to make your vision blur at the edges. "That’s what you want, isn’t it? To pretend you’re not fucking begging for it?"
Your hands flew to his wrist, nails digging in, but he only laughed. "Cute. Like you could actually stop me." Then his other hand was between your legs, fingers working your clit in rough, merciless circles. Your body betrayed you instantly, knees jerking up, a broken sound tearing from your throat.
"Fuck, look at you," he growled, hips slamming into you with deliberate, punishing force. "Squirming away like you’ve got a choice. Like this isn’t exactly where you belong." His thumb pressed harder, and you arched despite yourself, a sob catching in your crushed airway.
He leaned down, lips grazing your ear. "You gonna come on my dick like a good little slut? Or do I need to remind you who owns this pussy?" The laugh that followed melted into a groan as he fucked you harder, his pace turning vicious. Every snap of his hips was a claim, every choked breath you managed a surrender.
"Oh, fuck—" Ha-joon groaned, his voice thick with lust. "You’re gonna make me come, squeezing me like that." His hand left your throat, fingers digging into your hip hard enough to bruise, marking you as his. You whimpered, tears spilling as you bit your swollen lip. "H-Ha-joon… please don’t cum in me—"
He laughed, dark and mocking. "Baby, with that fucking face you’re making?" His hips snapped forward, forcing a choked cry from your throat. "Makes me wanna put a baby in you. Breed you so deep you’ll remember who owns this pussy."
You tried to push up, panic flaring but his hand slammed you back down, fingers twisting in your hair. "Did I say you could move? Stay the fuck down and take this dick until I say."
His thrusts turned more punishing, each one driving the air from your lungs. "And I am gonna come inside you," he growled, fingers swiping roughly over your clit before slapping it making you jerk. "Since this pussy—" Another brutal thrust. "—is mine."
You sobbed, but he didn’t slow, didn’t stop, just fucked you through your tears until his rhythm stuttered. "Fuck—take it," he snarled, burying himself to the hilt as he came, hot and deep, claiming you in the worst way. When he finally pulled out, he stared down at your wrecked body….trembling, used, his and smirked. "Goddamn, you were made for me."
He leaned down and tapped your cheek with his hand, like you were something precious. "I’ll be back soon, so be ready for me, okay, hun?" As if this were normal. As if you weren’t shattered. Then he turned and left, the door clicking shut behind him like a final verdict.
You curled into yourself, knees pressed to your chest, and sobbed until your throat burned. You didn’t even realize you’d fallen asleep until you woke the next morning, your body aching, your soul hollowed out. How am I going to face them? The thought clawed at you. Leaving your friends,your family just to keep them safe would be the hardest thing you’d ever do. But you had no choice.
A sharp ding cut through the silence. Your phone, discarded across the room, lit up with a notification. You limped toward it, every step heavy with exhaustion, and picked it up with trembling hands.
Ha-joon: You were so good for me… I promise Go eun is safe. For now.
A scream built in your chest, raw and silent. You hurled the phone against the wall, watching it shatter into pieces…just like your life. Just like you. Then you sank to the floor, arms wrapped around yourself, and cried until there was nothing left. No tears. No hope. Just the gnawing, endless emptiness.