“Control”

“Glass Cage: Part 7 – The Key”

Geum Seong-je x fem!reader | dark romance, forbidden knowledge, quiet rebellion, raw intimacy

____

You didn’t mean to do it

Not at first.

You just want to hold him. He’s sleeping deeper than usual — jaw relaxed, brow soft, his breath warm against the back of your neck.

His hand is heavy on your waist. Like always.

But this time…

You’re not content.

You lie awake, heart loud in your chest, staring into the dark of the new house.

That room.

That door.

What does he think will break if you see?

You slide out from under his arm like you’ve done a dozen times before — when you just wanted water, or to wander the house barefoot in your own thoughts.

But this time you go to the closet.

And you kneel down.

Where he keeps the small fireproof lockbox.

You saw him slip a key into it last week.

The only key you’ve never asked him for.

You open the box.

And find it.

Thin, silver. Cold.

The key to the locked door.

You hold it in your palm.

You don’t even hesitate.

⸻

The hallway is darker than usual.

Like the shadows know.

Your bare feet are silent against the floorboards. The only sound is your breath — fast, sharp, not from fear…

But from knowing this is the one thing he wouldn’t forgive.

You reach the door.

Slide the key in.

Click.

It swings open without a sound.

⸻

The air smells… different.

Dust. Metal. Paper.

The room is dim — covered windows, low light.

You step inside.

It’s not what you expected.

No blood. No chains. No horror.

It’s a shrine.

To you.

⸻

Photos of you, before he took you.

Candid ones. Ones you didn’t even know were being taken.

In cafés. On your old college campus. Walking down streets at night.

Dozens. Hundreds. Lined on the wall like a timeline of his obsession.

There are journals, too.

Notebooks filled with his handwriting — pages upon pages of you.

“She wears the same shoes again today. I think she likes them because they squeak when she walks. They sound like her — small, but impossible to ignore.”

“Someone touched her wrist when handing her change at the bookstore. I almost followed him home.”

“I know her patterns. I know what time she showers. I know what time she cries.”

You stand still.

Not afraid.

Not disgusted.

Just… quiet.

Because it makes sense.

All of it.

The way he looks at you like he’s starving.

The way he memorized your breath before he memorized your body.

The way he loves you so deeply it started before you even met.

And in the back of the room…

A sketch.

Drawn by hand.

You, asleep.

In his bed.

Before he ever brought you here.

⸻

You hear his voice before you turn.

Low. Lethal. Broken.

“…You weren’t supposed to come in here.”

You freeze.

Then slowly, turn around.

He’s standing in the doorway.

Barefoot.

Shirtless.

Key still missing from the box you forgot to close.

You say nothing.

He walks forward, every step measured.

And stops in front of you.

“You disobeyed me.”

“I know.”

“You saw everything.”

“I did.”

He’s breathing harder now. His jaw’s tight.

His hands twitch like he doesn’t know whether to hold you or strangle the air between you.

Then—

“Do you hate me?”

You look up at him.

Shake your head.

“I think I love you more.”

His breath catches.

“What?”

You step forward. Place your palm over his chest.

“I always knew you were dangerous. I just didn’t know how long you’d been mine.”

He swallows hard.

Then falls to his knees in front of you.

Head against your stomach. Arms around your waist. Shaking.

Like you just saved him from himself.

⸻

You don’t sleep in his bed that night.

You sleep on the floor of the secret room.

With him curled around you.

Surrounded by the proof of how long he’s loved you.

—

The morning after you found the secret room, everything feels different.

Not colder.

Not tense.

Just… exposed.

Like something raw and sacred has been shared.

He doesn’t speak much that day.

He makes you breakfast, quiet. Watches you eat like you might vanish if he blinks.

He cleans the gun under the table while you braid your hair in front of the mirror.

He doesn’t bring up the room.

But he doesn’t lock it again either.

And that night, after he falls asleep—

You get up.

And start bringing in your things.

⸻

You take your favorite lipstick and draw a heart on the wall over one of the photos.

Then you tape up a photo of him.

Not one he took.

One you stole — months ago — when he wasn’t looking, standing at the stove, half-asleep in his hoodie.

You bring your perfume.

A strand of your hair from his brush.

A paper napkin with your old handwriting on it — the one that says “I love the way you look at me.”

And you tape it to the wall.

Right next to his sentence:

“I love the way she doesn’t know she belongs to me yet.”

⸻

He finds you in the room three days later.

Sitting on the floor.

Drawing his silhouette in the corner of one of his notebooks.

He stands in the doorway, stunned.

“…What are you doing?”

You look up.

Smile.

“Making it ours.”

⸻

He walks in, slowly.

Looks around.

Sees the photo you added.

The lipstick heart.

The perfume bottle.

He swallows hard.

“You’re not afraid of this?”

“No.”

He crouches beside you.

“Of me?”

You shake your head. “I’m yours, remember?”

His hand trembles as he cups your cheek.

“And I’m yours,” he whispers. “Even the parts I wanted to hide.”

You lean in. Kiss the corner of his mouth.

Then say:

“Then give me more.”

⸻

That night, you don’t sleep in the bed.

You sleep in the shrine again. Together. Tangled. Safe.

You fall asleep with his name written in ink across your thigh — because he asked to write it there.

And when you wake up, he’s already sketching you again.

This time not from memory.

This time from right here.

Right now.

In the place where obsession turned into something neither of you has words for.

——-

I’m not even gonna call with y’all I did cry when I wrote this and when I reread it✋🤧

“No One Else”

Pairing: Geum Seong-je x Reader

Genre: Angst, possessiveness, obsession, unresolved tension

Setting: Post-Class 2 events, dark school rooftops and quiet apartments

⸻

You shoved his hand off your wrist for the third time that night.

“Geum Seong-je,” you snapped. “You’re not my boyfriend. You don’t get to act like this.”

His eyes flickered. Not wide, not surprised—but focused. Too focused. Like a lion watching prey try to limp away.

“Don’t call me by my full name like that,” he said, stepping forward. His voice wasn’t loud, but it tightened the air between you.

“Why not? That’s your name, isn’t it? Or should I start calling you what people actually say behind your back?”

He raised a brow. “You think I care what people say?”

“You care when I say it.”

That shut him up, for a beat. And that silence felt more dangerous than any insult he could throw.

You folded your arms, already regretting coming up to the rooftop with him. He’d cornered you at the stairwell after your last class, asking—no, demanding—a word. Always when no one else was around. Always when it would be easier to just nod and let him have his say.

You should’ve said no.

“You were with him again,” Seong-je said finally, his voice low. “You know who I mean.”

You blinked. “Are you seriously bringing this up again? He’s a friend. A normal friend.”

“Normal? You think that guy’s not waiting for you to give him one smile and climb into his lap?”

You stepped back. “You’re out of line.”

He followed, slow and deliberate. “Maybe. But I’m not wrong.”

“Even if you’re not, it doesn’t matter. You don’t get to dictate who I hang out with. You don’t own me.”

That word. Own.

His face twitched. Not angry. Not yet. Just… strained. Tense in that way he got when he was trying not to lose control.

“I don’t want to own you,” he said. But his eyes said otherwise. “I just want you to understand. I’m the one who sees you for who you are. Not them. Not that guy. He doesn’t know how your voice sounds when you’re lying. I do.”

You stared at him, arms still crossed. “That’s not love, Seong-je. That’s surveillance.”

He laughed. Just once. Sharp, bitter.

“Love?” he repeated. “You think what you make me feel is love?”

You paused. The rooftop air felt colder suddenly. And quieter. His voice dropped to a near whisper.

“I don’t sleep some nights,” he said. “Not because of guilt. I don’t have much of that left. But because I can’t stop thinking about you. What you’re doing. Who you’re smiling at. If you’re still thinking about me or if you’ve finally decided I’m just another freak with a control problem.”

You didn’t speak. Because he wasn’t wrong. You had thought that. Maybe still did.

“But then you do something stupid,” he continued. “Like laugh too loud in the hallway. Or wear something that makes every guy turn his head. And I realize—they don’t get to see you like that. They don’t get that part of you. Only I do.”

You exhaled slowly. “That’s not love either. That’s obsession.”

He stepped closer again, so close you could smell the faint trace of smoke and mint he always carried. Not cologne—something darker. More dangerous.

“I don’t care what you call it,” he said. “As long as it keeps you away from him.”

You glared at him. “You think I’ll drop my friends just because you said so?”

He leaned in, voice quiet enough that you could feel it in your spine.

“I think you already have. At least a little. Because you’re still here. Because even when I scare the hell out of you… you stay.”

He was right. And that terrified you more than anything.

Because you had a million chances to walk away from Geum Seong-je. From his temper, from the way he made everything a war, from the way his gaze felt like it could skin people alive—but you didn’t.

Maybe because part of you liked how intense he got. How he looked at you like you were the only real thing in a world full of pawns and trash. Maybe you liked being the one exception.

But at what cost?

“You need help,” you whispered.

His head tilted, eyes unreadable. “You make me worse. You know that, right?”

You nodded, slowly. “Yeah. And you make it really hard to breathe sometimes.”

He looked at you for a long time. No smirk. No anger. Just a quiet, razor-sharp stare.

“Good,” he said. “Then we’re even.”

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t soft.

It wasn’t sweet.

It was a claim.

Possessive. Bruising. A kiss like a warning.

You didn’t kiss back. But you didn’t push him away, either.

And when he pulled back, his hand still wrapped around your wrist, you realized he wasn’t going to let go.

Not tonight. Maybe not ever.

“You Don’t Know Me, But You Will”

Geum Seong-je x Younger Reader(by three years)

Genre: Dark Romance / Obsession / Psychological

Geum seong je finds himself stalking and following her. Memorizing her schedule. Knowing where she lives. It doesn’t bother her. It makes her fall more…

⸻

She didn’t know his name.

You had passed by him maybe once—twice, if fate was being funny. You didn’t even look up when it happened. Just another boy in the background. Another blurred face in the messy canvas of school and city and bus rides.

But to him, you were everything.

Geum Seong-je noticed you the first time you passed his crew on the back street near the old convenience store. Your uniform was neater than the others’, your head lowered like you didn’t want to be seen. But he saw you. He always sees what others don’t.

That day, he followed you.

At first, just a block. Then two. Then every afternoon. You always took the same way home, headphones in, oblivious to the shadows you walked past. He memorized your routine. 4:07 p.m., you left school. 4:15, stopped for bubble tea. 4:38, turned the corner by the florist and disappeared into that tiny house with the rusting gate.

He didn’t know why it started. It didn’t matter.

There was a pull, like something primal. You were younger—three years, maybe more—but it didn’t register as a problem in his mind. Age didn’t mean anything. Not when he’d already decided you were his. Not when he felt something raw and alive clawing at his insides every time he saw you.

You smiled at a classmate once—some boy your age—and Geum Seong-je gritted his teeth so hard his jaw ached. He didn’t like that. You didn’t even know him, but he burned with possessiveness anyway.

He watched you through windows. From rooftops. He learned your schedule better than you knew it yourself. Some nights, he followed you all the way to your tutoring sessions. Once, he even stepped into the same bookstore just to hear your voice when you asked the clerk about a novel.

Your voice made his fingers twitch. He wanted to own that softness. Trap it in a glass jar and never let anyone else hear it again.

You didn’t know it yet, but Geum Seong-je had already chosen you.

And he was just waiting for the right moment to make you see him too.

Lately, you’ve felt it.

A shift in the air. A weight behind your every step, like someone’s gaze is stitching itself into your spine.

It started small. The hair on your arms rising when you turned the corner near the convenience store. The feeling of eyes pressing against your back on the bus, even when no one was looking. You chalked it up to stress, to weird dreams and too many late nights reading horror stories.

But now?

Now you’re not so sure.

Today, you swear someone followed you.

Not with footsteps. Not anything obvious. Just that pull again — the sense that someone’s always a few steps behind, never touching, never close, but there. Breathing the same air. Watching.

And the weirdest part?

You’re not scared.

You should be. Any sane person would be. But instead… there’s something else curling in your stomach when it happens. A strange calm. A chill that makes you walk slower instead of faster.

It feels like something’s waiting for you. Like he’s waiting.

You don’t know his name. But you’ve seen him — tall, maroon jacket, eyes like they’ve seen too much. He’s always on the edge of your world. Near the bus stop. Outside the boba shop. Once, you saw him in the reflection of a window… just standing across the street, his gaze slicing straight through the glass like he could see inside you.

You don’t know him.

But you feel him.

Like he lives beneath your skin. Like something buried deep in your chest recognizes him, even if your mind doesn’t understand why.

It’s not love. It’s not fear either. It’s something in between. Something darker. Something magnetic.

From across the street, Geum Seong-je watches you pause. You turn your head like you can sense him. His breath catches. You feel him, don’t you?

He knew you would.

He smiles.

You’re almost ready.

“Glass Cage: Part 9 – The Night They Came”

Geum Seong-je x fem!reader | heavy angst,

Guys I’m sorry for doing this to y’all. But I couldn’t help it. Trust when I say your are gonna need to listen to this song while reading this ok😓🙏🏻🙏🏻

⸻

It was raining.

A quiet, warm rain that tapped gently on the windows like it didn’t want to disturb anything.

The house smelled like vanilla and red wine.

The soft hum of the heater filled the room.

The baby had just fallen asleep — her little fists curled under her chin, breathing soft and perfect.

You’d both stood over her crib a little longer tonight.

Just looking.

Seong-je had kissed your temple and whispered:

“She looks like you when she sleeps.”

You smiled, eyes full.

“You say that every night.”

He just grinned, kissed your lips next, and turned the baby monitor on.

⸻

You sat together by the window, watching the rain blur the world.

Two glasses of wine.

His fingers intertwined with yours.

Married.

Safe.

Hidden.

In love.

You almost believed the world had forgotten you.

You almost believed forever could fit inside four walls.

And then—

BANG. BANG. BANG.

Three deafening knocks on the front door.

Too hard.

Too fast.

Too official.

You jolted.

Wine glass spilled.

Your heart stopped.

Seong-je was already on his feet.

You grabbed his arm.

“Don’t—wait—don’t open it—”

But he was calm. Too calm. Like he’d been waiting for this moment his whole life.

“Stay with the baby.”

“No—”

Too late.

He opened the door.

⸻

Ji-won was standing in the rain.

Behind him—

Two FBI agents.

Their badges out.

Jackets soaked.

Guns visible.

Outside, headlights cut through the dark.

Several cars.

People moving behind trees.

Voices on radios.

It wasn’t just a knock.

It was a raid.

⸻

You stepped into the hallway, barefoot.

And time slowed.

You saw Ji-won’s face.

Guilt. Regret.

And something like mourning.

One agent stepped forward, raising his voice:

“Geum Seong-je—hands on your head. Get on the floor. Now!”

You couldn’t process it.

“W-what? What’s going on—?”

“We’ve been investigating the disappearance of [Y/N] for over a year now. A camper in the area saw you both near the river. We confirmed the identity. We know you’re here. Sir—on the ground. Now.”

Your world cracked like glass.

The baby monitor screeched from the table.

Your daughter crying, wailing in the other room.

“No—no—no!”

You ran forward, but one of them grabbed you—holding you back gently but firmly.

“Ma’am—step aside—”

“Don’t touch him! He didn’t do anything wrong!”

But Seong-je just looked at you.

Not afraid.

Just heartbroken.

⸻

He lowered himself slowly to the floor.

Hands on his head.

The agents surrounded him.

Cuffed him.

One read him his rights, voice drowned out by your screaming.

“Don’t take him!—please—PLEASE!—don’t take him away!—”

You were shaking, clawing to get to him.

The rain poured harder.

Your feet slipped in the mud.

Seong-je looked over his shoulder as they pulled him to the truck.

And he smiled.

Just a little.

Like it was the only thing he had left to give you.

“You’re safe now,” he mouthed.

“I love you.”

⸻

You ran after them.

Screaming.

Begging.

Your body against the side of the truck as they shoved him in.

“I love him! You don’t understand—HE SAVED ME! Please—please—just let me talk to him—let me touch him—just ONE MORE TIME—!” You screamed as the cops held you back.

But the engine roared.

The door slammed.

And Seong-je disappeared behind steel and glass and red lights.

You stood in the driveway.

Soaked.

Bleeding from your knees.

And screamed.

“BRING HIM BACK—”

“PLEASE BRING HIM BACK—”

⸻

The FBI tried to talk to you.

One woman crouched down, jacket shielding your body from the rain.

“Are you okay? Do you need medical—?”

You shoved her away.

“I’m not okay! I’m never going to be okay again.”

And you collapsed.

Right there in the mud.

Hands in your hair.

Eyes toward the empty road where they’d taken your husband.

⸻

Your baby’s cries still echoed from inside the house.

The monitor was still glowing.

And your chest caved in as you whispered to no one:

“She won’t even remember his face…”

——-

“The Quiet Between Us”

Pairing: Yeon Si-eun x fem!reader

Genre: Fluff, slow-burn comfort

⸻

The wind was crisp today—cool enough to make you shiver despite the faint sunlight filtering through the trees in Yeongdeungpo Park. You tugged your sleeves over your hands and glanced beside you.

Yeon Si-eun was sitting on the park bench, back straight, hands resting neatly on his knees. His expression was neutral as always—guarded, distant—but you could tell he was relaxed in his own way. The gentle sway of his leg and the way he let out a soft breath every now and then told you more than his face ever did.

“You’re cold,” he said suddenly, his voice low.

You blinked. “What gave it away? My chattering teeth?”

His gaze flickered to you—dry, deadpan.

“You’re not that subtle,” he replied.

You rolled your eyes, but smiled. “You could offer me your jacket, you know. Like a proper gentleman.”

“I would,” he said without missing a beat, “but you’d probably drown in it.”

That made you laugh, and you didn’t miss the tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth. You loved that—you loved the way he didn’t smile often, but when he did, it felt like you’d uncovered something rare. You didn’t need big gestures with Si-eun. His presence, his quiet concern, was enough.

“You always come out here when you’re thinking,” you said, watching the small pond across from the bench. Ducks floated lazily, undisturbed by the cold.

“It’s quiet here.”

“You don’t like quiet?”

“No, I like it,” he said, turning his head slightly to look at you. “But when I’m with you, the quiet feels different.”

Your heart stuttered.

He wasn’t the kind of guy to say things like that. He wasn’t the type to offer compliments or be affectionate without reason. But every now and then, he dropped these quiet, thoughtful lines that left you breathless.

“Different how?” you asked softly.

Si-eun looked away, watching the leaves dance in the breeze. His brows drew together—not in irritation, just contemplation. You’d come to recognize the subtle shifts in his expressions.

“It’s not heavy,” he finally said. “Silence is usually… pressure. But with you, it’s not.”

You didn’t speak for a while, afraid that anything you said might shatter the moment. You simply leaned your shoulder into his, your touch light but intentional. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t move away.

He let you stay there.

That was enough.

⸻

You and Si-eun weren’t dating—at least, not officially. You weren’t even sure what you were. Friends, maybe. Companions. Something suspended in that space between understanding and unspoken affection.

But days like this made you feel like you didn’t need a label.

“You know,” you said after a while, watching a kid try to feed bread to a pigeon twice his size, “most people wouldn’t pick a cold bench over their warm beds on a weekend.”

He shrugged. “Most people aren’t me.”

“Mm, true. But most people aren’t this pretty, either.”

That made him pause.

“Pretty?”

“You know you are,” you teased. “If you ever wanted to stop beating people up, you could just model for skincare brands. You’ve got that ‘stone-cold beauty’ thing going for you.”

He gave you a flat look, but his ears were pink. That was enough for you to claim victory.

“You’re weird,” he said quietly.

“So are you.”

There was a pause. He was still looking at you, his gaze lingering just a moment too long to be casual.

“That’s why I don’t mind being around you,” he murmured.

You were pretty sure your heart forgot how to beat for a second.

⸻

Later, the two of you wandered the nearby streets, your footsteps naturally falling in rhythm. Si-eun didn’t talk much, but his presence filled the space in other ways. You always noticed the little things—how he walked on the side closest to the road, how his eyes subtly scanned your surroundings, how he slowed his steps if you fell behind.

There was comfort in that. In knowing that he cared in ways that didn’t need to be said aloud.

You stopped in front of a small convenience store.

“Want hot chocolate?” you asked.

He nodded once. You ducked inside, grabbing two cans of warm cocoa from the heated shelf. When you came back out, he was leaning against the wall, hands tucked into his pockets, face turned up slightly to the sky like he was trying to read something in the clouds.

You handed him one can.

“Thanks,” he said, fingers brushing yours as he took it.

The contact made you warm in a way the drink couldn’t.

You both stood there for a moment, sipping cocoa in silence.

“I used to do this alone,” he said suddenly.

You looked at him.

“Come out on weekends. Watch people. Drink hot chocolate.”

You smiled. “Sounds lonely.”

“It was.”

His eyes met yours. There was something unguarded in his gaze, a softness that didn’t come often.

“It’s not anymore,” he said.

⸻

“Glass Cage: Part |||– The Lock and the Longing”

Geum Seong-je x fem!reader | dark romance, obsession, soft tension, quiet ache

⸻

It’s the only night he doesn’t come.

You wait.

Eyes wide open, curled in the soft nest of blankets and expensive sheets in the basement room — but the door doesn’t open. The chair remains empty. No quiet breathing from the corner. No watching. No warmth.

You stare into the dark, heart drumming.

He’s never missed a night.

He always sits in that chair like a silent guardian — a king keeping vigil over the only thing in his world he wants to protect.

But not tonight.

You wait another hour.

Nothing.

At first, it feels like abandonment. Then something else entirely.

Hunger.

Not for food. Not for air. For him. His presence. His closeness. His voice in the dark.

You slide out of bed barefoot, floor cool under your toes. You go to the door. It’s locked, of course — the same way it’s always been when he leaves at night.

But he forgot something this time.

You’re not scared anymore.

You want to find him.

You go to the vanity drawer. Dig under the perfume bottles and silk ribbons until you find it — the thin hairpin he tucked there last week when brushing your hair. You twist it once, twice — remember something you saw in a movie once.

Click.

The lock gives.

Your breath catches.

You push the door open slowly. The upstairs hallway stretches out like a black river, long and quiet and full of shadows. You step out, careful. Listening. Not a sound.

Not even him.

You move barefoot through the corridor.

First room — empty. Just storage. Dusty linens, untouched.

Second — a study. Neat rows of books. Closed curtains.

Third — locked.

Fourth — another guest room. Clean, unused.

Then the last one. At the very end of the hall.

His room.

You feel it before you even open the door. It smells like him. That warm, masculine scent — clean soap, leather, cedar, and something sharp beneath it. You press your palm to the door, breath trembling.

Then push.

It opens with a soft creak.

The room is dark, but the curtains are cracked just enough to let moonlight spill across the floor. You see the edge of the bed first. Huge. Unmade.

And then — him.

Geum Seong-je.

Asleep on his back, one arm resting over his stomach, the other turned palm-up on the sheets beside him. His hair is slightly messy, lips parted, chest rising and falling under a thin black shirt.

You freeze.

You’ve never seen him like this — unguarded.

He looks so young. So tired.

So… human.

Something inside your chest twists.

You step forward. Slowly. Silently. The floor doesn’t creak under your weight. You approach the bed like it’s an altar and he’s the god that owns you.

You slip beneath the covers.

His body shifts instinctively, heat radiating off him like fire. You slide close, curl against him — your cheek resting right over his heart.

The moment you touch him, he stiffens.

Then —

“…You picked the lock?”

His voice is quiet. Half-awake.

You don’t answer right away.

You only whisper, “I couldn’t sleep without you.”

A beat.

Then a sigh leaves his chest — long and low and defeated.

His arm curls around you without resistance, pulling you flush against him. Your legs tangle. Your fingers curl into the hem of his shirt. He presses his face into your hair.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he murmurs.

“You said I was never a prisoner,” you breathe.

He doesn’t respond.

But he holds you tighter.

⸻

Later that night, you shift in your sleep and feel him watching you.

Not from the chair.

But from inches away.

His eyes are open now. Awake. Silent.

Like he still can’t believe you chose this.

Like he doesn’t know how to survive the ache you’ve carved into his ribs.

His voice barely breaks the dark.

“You’re mine,” he whispers.

And you, still half-asleep, curl deeper into his chest and murmur, “I was always yours.”

Guys I don’t know what got write. I haven’t written in almost a week!!!!😫😫😫

“Only I Hurt You”

Oneshot were seong je finds reader in his bed after he was out handling a couple of guys who had fought her while walking home in an alley way (he told her to go home but she went to his house instead)

The front door creaked when he opened it.

Blood still clung to his knuckles, dried into the creases of his fingers. His hoodie was soaked with someone else’s sweat, maybe some of his own, and the adrenaline hadn’t fully left his bloodstream yet. It rarely did.

They’d laid hands on you. That was enough to make him see red. Enough to make him track them down like dogs.

But the house was too quiet now.

Geum Seong-je kicked off his boots and headed down the dim hallway. The rain hadn’t stopped — he could still hear it hammering against the windows. He told you to go home. Told you to listen.

You never listened.

And when he stepped into his bedroom, there you were.

Curled in his bed, soaking wet, blood streaked down one arm, your lip split and trembling. His sheets were damp. Your clothes were stuck to your skin like a second layer. Your shoes were still on.

“You walked here?” His voice came out low. Barely controlled.

You didn’t look at him. Didn’t answer.

He crossed the room in two steps.

“You walked here. In the rain. After they touched you?”

You blinked. He could see the shiver you tried to suppress, your body reacting before your pride could hide it. The blood on your shirt wasn’t all dried. Some of it was still fresh.

“I didn’t want to be alone,” you whispered.

That cracked something in him.

Geum Seong-je didn’t speak for a long moment. He just stood there, fists clenched, chest rising slowly. Then, without a word, he knelt at the edge of the bed and started untying your soaked laces. You flinched when his knuckles brushed your ankle.

“I told you to go home,” he muttered. “But you came here, instead.”

Your voice was barely audible. “This is home.”

He froze. Just for a second.

Then he yanked your shoes off with more force than necessary and peeled your jacket away from your shoulders. It clung, resisting, your blood and the rainwater mixing into a mess that stained his fingers.

You tried to sit up, but his hand landed on your thigh — firm, grounding.

“Stay still.”

You didn’t dare disobey.

He left for a moment. You heard drawers open, the faucet running. When he came back, he had a towel, gauze, ointment, and one of his oversized shirts.

“Take the top off.” His tone left no room for argument.

You moved slowly, the sting in your ribs sharper now that the adrenaline was fading. He watched you, eyes narrow, jaw tight, like he was memorizing every bruise so he could repay them tenfold.

He cleaned the cut on your arm with terrifying gentleness, fingertips brushing over your skin like you were something fragile, breakable.

“You should’ve called me,” he murmured.

“You told me to leave.”

“You should’ve still called.”

Your eyes flicked up. “Would you have come?”

He paused.

Then leaned in.

“I’m always coming for you.”

The silence between you tightened, thick with something you didn’t know how to name. You winced when he pressed antiseptic to your split lip. He cupped your jaw to steady you, his thumb brushing your cheek, rough with callouses and blood.

“I handled it,” he said. “They won’t touch you again. They won’t touch anyone again.”

A beat.

“Did you kill them?”

His eyes didn’t flinch. “No. But I made them wish I had.”

The room went still.

“You scare me sometimes,” you admitted.

He brushed damp hair from your face. Then leaned forward and kissed your forehead — barely a whisper of contact.

“I know,” he said. “But I’m the only one who’s allowed to hurt you.”

You didn’t know whether to cry or kiss him.

So instead, you let him pull his shirt over your head, let him dry your hair with the towel like he’d done this a hundred times before. And when he climbed into bed behind you, one arm sliding under your neck and the other over your waist, pulling you close, you didn’t fight it.

You just let yourself be held. By the boy who broke bones with his fists and still handled you like porcelain.

Because somehow, in all this cold, bleeding chaos —

Geum Seong-je was the only warmth you had left.

“No One Else” — Part 7: “The Silence Between Us”

Genre: Dark romance, emotional unraveling, obsession

Tone: Cold war tension, quiet heartbreak, dangerous buildup

I have no music for this one😖

⸻

You didn’t answer that night.

And you didn’t follow him when he walked away.

That was the beginning.

The shift.

The unraveling.

⸻

You stopped texting first.

You sat with other people at lunch.

You let your headphones drown him out in the hallway. Walked past him without slowing down. Not in hatred—just in resistance.

You needed to know if you were still a person without him. If your thoughts were your own. If your voice didn’t echo back his name every time you breathed.

He noticed, of course.

He always noticed.

⸻

At first, he didn’t confront you.

Just watched.

From his usual spot near the stairs. Or across the hall. Or from a corner of the convenience store he never used to go to.

He watched you laugh with someone else.

He watched you tuck your phone deeper into your bag.

He watched the space between you grow like a wound.

And then—he started cracking.

⸻

It came out in bursts.

One day, he grabbed your wrist in the hallway. Too tight. Too fast.

“Don’t ignore me,” he said.

You stared at him, calm and deliberate. “You said to choose. I’m choosing.”

He didn’t let go.

His hand was shaking.

You’d never seen him shake before.

“You think walking away makes you free?” he asked. “You think I’ll just disappear?”

“I don’t know,” you whispered. “Do you want to disappear, Seong-je?”

That made something in him snap.

He let go.

But the next day?

He wasn’t at school.

And neither was the guy you’d been working on the project with.

⸻

You found out through someone else that the kid ended up in the nurse’s office with a busted lip and no explanation.

You didn’t ask.

You knew.

You went home that night with your heart pounding and your stomach twisted.

You wanted space.

But distance from Geum Seong-je didn’t feel like freedom.

It felt like walking through a minefield barefoot.

⸻

He didn’t show up again for three days.

And for three days, you slept with your phone on your pillow, waiting.

Not because you missed him.

But because some part of you knew—when he came back, he wouldn’t come quietly.

And if you weren’t ready, he’d take back everything you were trying to reclaim.

One word at a time.