Everything he knew about love was a lie—until he stepped into her shadow.

💭

They say love is gentle. Soft. A place to rest your soul.

But the first time I met her… it felt like being dragged under.

Like drowning in velvet, suffocating on roses—thorns first.

💭

Seoul pulsed with midnight silence, its neon glow reflecting off rain-slick streets like the city was weeping secrets.

Somewhere between the blur of exhaustion and the hum of broken dreams, he saw her.

She didn't belong to the world of the living.

Not really.

A woman wrapped in black, heels echoing like gunshots against the pavement.

Eyes cold enough to still time.

Lips the color of danger.

And a presence that whispered: Run.

But he didn't.

He should have.

To the world, she was just a rumor.

A ghost in a penthouse.

A name never spoken, only feared.

To him, she became everything.

He was an ordinary man—

A college student who juggled part-time jobs and carried his family's burden on tired shoulders.

Naive. Kind. Too soft for the world she ruled.

Too human for her obsession.

But she didn't fall in love.

She chose.

And once chosen… there was no escape.

Not with flowers.

Not with kindness.

With power.

With threats.

With chains you couldn't see—but felt tightening every time you breathed without her permission.

Now, as he writes this in a hidden journal beneath a flickering dorm light, ink smudges mix with something darker.

Blood. Fear. Maybe both.

💭

If you're reading this…

It's already too late.

She doesn't love like others do.

She owns.

And the deeper you go, the darker it gets.

💭

Welcome to her world.

Where love isn't given—

It's taken.

Where escape isn't an option—

Only obedience.

Where kindness becomes your weakness,

And obsession… becomes your cage.

Beneath Her Shadow

The alarm buzzed at 5:45 AM.

It wasn't the sound that woke him—he was already half-awake, staring at the cracked ceiling of the small apartment he shared with his family. It was the guilt. The weight of bills on the dining table. The sound of his sister coughing quietly from the next room as she got ready for her early shift.

Another day. Another shift. Another string of hours that belonged to someone else.

Kang Minjae had stopped counting how many part-time jobs he juggled. Barista. Delivery boy. Library assistant. On weekends, he even helped out at an old bookshop near Gangnam that paid in both cash and sympathy.

At 20, most of his classmates dreamt of internships at flashy conglomerates or overseas studies.

He dreamt of a working water heater and maybe a week without needing to skip meals.

His phone buzzed. A message from his sister, Kang Mirae.

📲💬

Don't forget your umbrella. It's going to rain again.

💬

He smiled faintly, thumbed out a reply, and sat up. Muscles ached in places he didn't know he had.

He glanced at the calendar on the wall—marked with rent due dates, his class schedule, and job shifts. A single red mark caught his attention.

"Mock Interview – Career Center: 2 PM."

He sighed. The university always held these events for scholarship students, pushing them to secure internships. But the truth was, no matter how polished his resume was, no one wanted someone with his background anymore.

His father had once been a prominent businessman in Seoul's elite circles. Their family used to live in a two-story house in Seongbuk-dong. Until that day came.

The day everything collapsed.

He never asked for the details. He just remembered the headlines. The whispers. The shame on his father's face.

Now, they lived in a 2-room apartment near Dongdaemun, pretending the past never happened.

But the past had a way of leaving residue. Especially on names.

⸻

It rained just before noon.

Seoul looked beautiful when it rained—if you weren't getting soaked on your way to your third job. Minjae stood outside the café near campus, holding two hot americanos and a plastic bag of warm bread. He waited under the awning, watching people blur by beneath umbrellas.

A small, folded note was stuck between the coffee cups.

He frowned. He hadn't noticed it before.

It was neatly written. Handwritten. On expensive ivory paper with faint golden floral borders. The kind you don't find in student stores.

You forgot your gloves today.

Please take care of your hands. They matter to me.

—From Someone Who's Watching

His breath caught.

He looked around. Nothing but strangers.

Was this some sort of prank? A weird marketing stunt?

He turned the note over. No logo. No sender.

And the handwriting—too elegant for someone casually passing by.

He folded the note and tucked it into his pocket.

Just then, his phone buzzed again.

📲💬

"Why don't you believe me?"

—From Unknown

💬

A cold chill spread down his spine.

There was no contact saved. No history.

The message arrived exactly thirty seconds after he'd read the note.

He quickly replied.

📲💬

Who is this? How do you know me?

💬

No response.

He waited. Five minutes. Ten.

Nothing.

He shoved the phone back into his pocket and told himself it was a coincidence. That it had to be.

⸻

By the time Minjae made it to campus for his mock interview, the rain had slowed to a drizzle. His shoes were soaked. The cuffs of his pants, too. But he still walked with his usual calm, soft smile pasted on like armor.

The interview panel was unimpressed.

Not because of him—but because of his name.

"Kang Minjae, you say? Your father was…"

The man didn't finish the sentence.

Minjae simply nodded.

"Yes. But I'm not him."

They pretended to smile.

"Of course not."

He left fifteen minutes later with a brochure about 'resilience workshops' and a generic promise: "We'll get back to you soon."

He didn't need a response. He already knew.

⸻

That night, Minjae's sister, Kang Mirae, came home late from work. She dropped a takeout bag on the table and ruffled his hair.

"You didn't eat properly again," she scolded, her voice soft but tired. "I know you skipped lunch."

He didn't deny it.

Instead, he helped her unpack the meal and listened to her complain about one of her coworkers at the publishing firm.

"You have to stop worrying about me so much, noona," he said, finally. "I'm not a kid."

She looked at him, serious now. Her fingers reached out and brushed the side of his hand—the one with a small paper cut from earlier that morning.

"I'll stop the day you stop hurting yourself trying to survive."

He wanted to say something, but his phone buzzed again.

📲💬

Did your sister like the food?

Don't worry. I made sure it was delivered fresh.

—From Unknown

💬

His blood froze.

He stared at the message, then slowly turned toward the takeout bag.

The logo on it wasn't from any local place they usually ordered from.

It was a high-end restaurant near Cheongdam—far above anything they could afford.

Mirae noticed the tension in his face. "What's wrong?"

He shook his head. "Nothing. Just… weird spam again."

He didn't tell her. He couldn't.

He excused himself to his room and sat on the edge of his bed.

His hands were shaking.

He opened his phone and quickly typed a response.

📲💬

Who are you? How do you know where I live?

💬

This time, the reply came instantly.

📲💬

You'll understand soon. Just be safe, Minjae.

💬

He stared at the screen for a long time.

No name. No face. Just messages.

⸻

At 2:00 AM, Minjae jolted awake.

His phone had buzzed again. One last message for the day.

📲💬

I don't like seeing you tired.

Rest well, my moonlight.

💬

He didn't reply.

Instead, he locked his phone, placed it face-down on the table, and stared at the ceiling.

💭

Who the hell are you?

💭

⸻

[End of Chapter 1]

⸻

It wasn't the messages that kept Minjae awake that night.

It was the silence that followed.

Every minute without a reply felt more ominous than the ones that had come before.

He lay in bed with the blanket pulled up to his chin, eyes wide open, ears straining for any sound beyond the thin walls of their apartment.

But there was nothing. No messages. No footsteps. Just the ticking of the cheap plastic clock on his wall.

He'd checked every app, scanned for spyware, even deleted messaging backups. Nothing unusual.

And yet… the messages still arrived.

When sleep finally took him, it was restless. Shadowed.

⸻

The next morning began with a headache.

Not the pounding kind—but a low, dull throb that made the world feel a shade grayer.

Minjae stood in front of the mirror, running a damp towel across his face. Dark circles had bloomed beneath his eyes.

He tied his apron for the café shift and left without a word. Mirae had already gone.

Outside, the city moved on. Loud, busy, unaware.

He hated how normal it all seemed.

📲💬

You didn't eat again.

There's a warm lunch waiting for you behind the staff fridge.

💬

He paused mid-step.

Then, slowly, walked into the alley beside the café and unlocked the employee entrance.

The staff fridge stood in the corner. He hesitated. Opened it.

Inside, wrapped in insulated packaging, was a neatly packed bento box.

Nothing fancy. Simple rice, grilled mackerel, a rolled omelet, and sliced apple rabbits.

His favorite.

He picked up the container with trembling fingers. No note this time. But there didn't need to be.

Whoever they were… they knew him too well.

💭

This isn't just stalking anymore.

💭

But he didn't throw it out.

He couldn't.

And that scared him even more.

⸻

Across the street, tucked into a third-floor café window, a woman stirred her coffee slowly.

She watched him through tinted glass, eyes cold, patient, yet tinged with something darkly tender.

"Still so predictable," she murmured. "Even after all these years."

A man in a sharp gray suit stood behind her, nervous, rigid.

"Miss… do you want us to intervene? This level of exposure—"

"Don't speak unless I ask you to," she cut him off.

He flinched and bowed. "Yes, Director Seo."

She took another sip. Her crimson lipstick stained the rim of the cup.

Outside, Kang Minjae walked back into the café, lunchbox in hand, unaware of the gaze locked onto his every move.

She smiled faintly.

Seo Yoonji.

The name that the world feared in boardrooms and whispered behind closed doors.

But in that moment, she was just a woman watching a boy she'd never stopped obsessing over.

No—a man, now.

A man who still looked at the world like it hadn't already burned him.

A man too naive to notice the net tightening around him.

She leaned back in her chair.

"Soon," she whispered, almost lovingly. "You'll see me again."

⸻

Back at the café, Minjae's shift passed in a haze. Customers came and went. Orders were shouted. Machines hissed and steamed.

But he was distant. Going through motions. Every time the bell above the door jingled, his eyes darted up—half-expecting to see someone standing there, watching him.

No one came.

Until the end of his shift.

She walked in like mist—quiet, composed, almost too graceful for the sticky floors of a student café.

Long black coat. Silky blouse. No umbrella, and not a drop of rain on her.

She was beautiful. Too beautiful. The kind of woman who didn't belong in this part of the city.

Minjae blinked, stunned for a moment.

Then quickly straightened. "Welcome. What can I get you?"

Her eyes met his. Dark. Sharp. But unreadable.

Like staring into a mirror with no reflection.

"An americano. Black." Her voice was low, smooth. But there was something off. Too controlled.

He nodded and turned to make the drink, hands moving automatically.

When he set the cup on the counter, she didn't take it.

She just watched him. Head tilted slightly. Studying. Measuring.

Minjae cleared his throat. "Here you go, miss."

She didn't move.

Then, softly:

"Do you remember me?"

He froze.

"…Sorry?"

She smiled. But there was no warmth in it. Only possession.

"I suppose not. You wouldn't. Not yet."

He blinked. "Have we met…?"

The woman didn't answer. Instead, she picked up the cup, turned, and walked out without another word.

No payment. No name.

Just that lingering presence, like perfume soaked into the air.

He stood there, heart pounding, staring at the door.

📲💬

She's beautiful, isn't she?

You noticed her.

💬

His phone slipped slightly in his grip. He quickly typed back.

📲💬

Was that you? Who are you??

💬

📲💬

Don't worry. She won't hurt you.

She loves you too much.

💬

He stared at the screen in disbelief. Then slowly looked up.

Through the glass windows of the café, the street was empty. The woman was gone.

But the feeling remained.

That someone was still watching.

⸻

That night, Kang Mirae was late again.

Minjae reheated leftover rice and scrambled an egg. He didn't touch the bento box. Just placed it carefully in the fridge.

He told himself he'd throw it out tomorrow.

Mirae arrived past 11 PM, dropping her bag with a sigh. "My editor's a monster. I swear he's trying to kill me with deadlines."

She flopped onto the couch, kicking off her heels.

"You okay?" she asked after a moment, eyes narrowing. "You look… distracted."

Minjae hesitated.

"Just tired. Had a weird customer today."

"You always have weird customers." She yawned. "It's Seoul. Everyone's cracked."

He forced a smile. "Yeah. True."

Mirae rubbed her forehead. "By the way, there's someone from your university trying to contact you. A girl. She came by the publishing house asking about you."

His head snapped up. "What girl?"

"I didn't get a name. She left before I could talk to her directly. Just told the receptionist to pass on a message—said she'll see you again soon."

Minjae's blood ran cold.

He didn't say anything.

Just nodded.

And quietly reached for his phone.

📲💬

Was that you again?

Why are you doing this?

What do you want from me?

💬

A pause. Then:

📲💬

To be close.

💬

Another message followed.

📲💬

To never be far again.

💬

Minjae dropped the phone onto his desk and buried his face in his hands.

💭

This is insane.

This is not normal.

This is not love.

💭

And yet…

Some part of him…

A small, buried piece…

Wasn't afraid.

It was flattered.

Wanted.

Even if the wanting came wrapped in shadows.

⸻

[End of Chapter 2]

⸻