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Part I: The Static
“Wooyoung-ah, you're always so careless with your things." Yeosang's voice was light, almost playful, as he held up the forgotten student ID card between two fingers. The cafeteria noise swirled around them—trays clattering, laughter bubbling over, the usual midday chaos of university life.
Wooyoung blinked, then patted his pockets with exaggerated urgency before grinning. "Shit, I would've been locked out of the kitchen again. You're my savior, Sangie." He reached for the card, but Yeosang pulled it back just slightly, his smile never wavering.
"What do I get for saving your ass this time?” Yeosang murmured, turning the card slowly between his fingers, as if taunting Wooyoung to grab it, looking at it like it was far more precious than a simple student pass. The overhead lights caught the edges of his nails—neatly filed, Wooyoung noticed absently—before Yeosang finally relinquished it with a soft chuckle. "You’d lose your head if it weren’t attached."
Wooyoung snorted, pecking Yeosang on the cheek while shoving the card into his back pocket. "Yeah, yeah, lecture me later. Thanks for the card Sangie. I need to run before Professor Park skins my hide for being late to his stupid workshop seminar. I’ll pay you back later, Promise!” He grabbed his half-finished iced americano, the condensation leaking onto his hand and shot Yeosang a half-wave. Yeosang’s smile softened to something more tender as he pulled out his phone and snapped a surreptitious photo of Wooyoung’s retreating back—the slope of his shoulders, the way his jacket rode up just enough to reveal a sliver of skin above his waistband. Truly tantalising.
Yeosang chuckled, mildly amused by Wooyoung’s antics. He truly is an exuberant ray of energy, Wooyoung is like his sun - always present, loud and filling the space, while he is merely the moon - basking in the glow from his sun, always having to catch up to his Wooyoung.
Wooyoung, in fact, lied. Not fully, Professor Park did have a stupid workshop seminar, but that was recently moved to the morning. No, Wooyoung was meeting some friends. Friends that were not Yeosang. Friends to tell him that what was happening around him wasn’t a hallucination, that he wasn’t dreaming everything around him. Friends that would tell him if he was in his right mind or not.
He rushed into the classroom, almost hitting his head on the door.
“Why’re you running Young-ah?”
“Because…” he panted as he flopped onto the desk, “I was almost late, and I know how Seonghwa is.” San chuckled back, knowing how particular Seonghwa was when it came to meeting up.
“You can relax, because for the first time in your life, you’re here before hyung.”
“I am?” Wooyoung looked around, finally resting on the table, “Oh, I am. He better hurry up. This is serious.”
As soon as Wooyoung spoke, Seonghwa walked in, with a bag of what looked like snacks in his hands.
“No Sannie,” Seonghwa moved his arms from San before he could attempt to grab the bag and gorge on everything in front of him, “After whatever Young-ah has to say, then you can eat them. And leave enough for us,” he chastised, San pouting before finally giving way.
“Yes Wooyoungie, what was so important you had to call a 112?” Mingi inquired.
With all eyes on him, Wooyoung finally took a deep breath before explaining everything, even showing them pictures on his phone, trying to convince them he’s not crazy.
“-so, I think I have a stalker. And he, it’s definitely a guy, he seems to know me. The… the letters have to be proof enough, isn’t it?” He looks up at his friends, not daring to look them in the eyes during his rant.
“And you’re sure it’s not just a fresher with a crush on you?” San inquires.
“Yeah Youngie, what if it is just a fresher slightly obsessed with you? Wouldn’t be the first time,” Mingi laughed, reminiscing over last year.
“Nonono,” Wooyoung stumbled over his words, “I was looking for a missing sock and somehow there was a heart-shaped pendant. It was neatly put between my sweaters. As if someone knew my wardrobe layout, knew how often I use my sweaters. It got a picture of me sleeping. Sleeping. It had ‘mine’ engraved on the other side. That… that’s not a cute crush.” He despaired until Seonghwa finally spoke.
“Woo, if, if this is a stalker, why did you not tell campus security? Or the police? Wouldn’t they be better?”
“Or is it because you like the attention Woo. You’re such an attention whore.” Mingi joked.
“Because, they can’t do anything because all I have is a gut feeling, a pendant and a stolen hoodie. He… the stalker doesn’t harm me. Just… watch over me. And sometimes helps me with my homework. Because how else does that explain the textbooks suddenly in my room?”
“Fair enough, but what do you want us to do?”
“Just, am I going insane? Is it good or bad? I..”
“Hold up,” San places his hand up in front of Wooyoung, “Why did you not tell Yeosang? He’s your closest best friend. Your soulmate. Surely he’d be better to tell than us.”
Wooyoung didn’t know how to answer him without seeming like a jerk. Because feeling like Yeosang is getting further away from him, feeling like his friend is distancing himself away. It feels wrong, it… almost feels like Yeosang knows.
“I… I think the stalker might have threatened Yeosang?” his meek voice comes out, “It… Sangie started distancing himself from me around a similar time when the stalker moved my stuff around and placed random no- love letters in my stuff.”
Seonghwa sighed, pinching his nose in exasperation trying to convince Wooyoung that telling Yeosang would’ve probably been better.
“We’ll stay around you, we can’t leave you alone Youngie. Text us whenever you go out. Update us every hour. And please, tell Yeosang.”
Wooyoung nodded back, acquiescing to Seonghwa’s demands. “I will hyung. I promise. I’ll tell Yeosangie when I go back to our dorm.”
Meanwhile, what was Yeosang doing? In the quiet of his dorm room, Yeosang would zoom in on that photo - a candid one of Wooyoung - tracing the pixelated curve of Wooyoung’s spine with his thumb. He had others, of course. Dozens. Wooyoung laughing into his palm during a lecture, Wooyoung dozing against a library window with sunlight pooling in the hollow of his throat, Wooyoung biting his lip in concentration as he laced up his sneakers after dance practice. But this one felt different. Maybe because Wooyoung had touched the card first. Maybe because Yeosang could still smell the faint, sugary trace of his iced coffee on his own fingertips. Wooyoung was like an addiction. A pleasure Yeosang would dearly submit to. Alas, it was not yet time.
Hearing the lock turning off the door, he switches websites. Pulling up a movie Wooyoung was begging to watch just days prior.
“Hey Youngie-” Yeosang was caught off guard as Wooyoung threw himself into Yeosang’s lap. His hands came up to cradle Wooyoung, as if wanting to hide him away from the horrors of the world. It was their dynamic. It was how the two have always been.
Yeosang had always been there. Yeosang was always his shield. They had grown up in the same neighborhood, attended the same schools, moved in the same circles. To the world, Yeosang was the quiet one—the beautiful, porcelain-faced boy who spoke in sentences so soft they were almost apologies. But to Wooyoung, Yeosang was static. When Wooyoung laughed, he felt Yeosang’s eyes recording the vibration of his throat. When Wooyoung cried after a breakup in high school, he felt Yeosang’s presence in the hallway like a protective ghost, nourished by the grief. Wooyoung was loud. He felt strongly. Yeosang was a cloud. Always hovering, always staying close by, ready to hold Wooyoung and help him with anything. Yeosang would truly do anything for Wooyoung. And Wooyoung would give anything for Yeosang. Truly, two peas in a pod.
Wooyoung blurted it all out. The first time he noticed the misplaced items, and barely gave a second thought. His favorite hoodie—the oversized black one with the frayed cuffs—had vanished from his dorm laundry basket, but dorm theft wasn’t exactly unheard of. Then his chemistry notes disappeared from his backpack, only to reappear the next day tucked neatly into his locker, annotated in unfamiliar, meticulous handwriting along the margins. "You’re welcome," scribbled at the bottom in blue ink. Wooyoung had laughed it off, assuming it was some overzealous study buddy from his lab group. The second time, when he’d been sprawled on the quad grass between classes, half-dozing, when he felt it—the weight of eyes lingering a beat too long. He’d jerked upright, scanning the scattered groups of students, but no one stood out. Just the usual sea of faces, none turned his way. Yet the sensation clung like static, raising the fine hairs on his nape. The third time, about the heart-shaped pendant. About all the random love letters and notes placed between his clothes, his notes, with his bag, the different snacks and drinks on his table, as if waiting for him, as if the person was watching him. It all tumbled out. And Yeosang kept on holding him, cradling Wooyoung on his lap as if he was the most precious thing Yeosang had ever seen or held in his life.
In a rare moment, Yeosang kissed the crown of his head, letting Wooyoung burrow further into him. “I’ll stay beside you then. You’re safe with me.” Though Wooyoung may not have known it, he had just fallen further into Yeosang’s trap. Phase 2 could start soon.
It’s been a few days and it doesn’t seem like much has changed. Wooyoung is never left alone, of course who would? After everything his friends learnt, I wouldn’t want to let my friend out of my sight ever again. Yet, he still had assignments to do, cooking lessons to be at, and choreographies to learn.
“Still staring into the abyss, Woo?” San’s voice, a warm rumble, pulled him back. San dropped a pile of books onto the table, the thud echoing slightly. His younger brother, Jongho, followed, a half-eaten apple in his hand, looking perpetually unimpressed by academic pursuits.
Wooyoung shook his head, a faint smile touching his lips. “Just thinking about how much I’d rather be anywhere but here.”
“Tell me about it,” Jongho mumbled, taking a loud bite. “This calculus is going to be the death of me.”
“You say that every semester,” San chuckled, ruffling Jongho’s hair. “Anyway, we’re heading to the cafeteria. Mingi and Yunho are already there. Yeosang might be a bit late. Seonghwa and Hongjoong might join us.”
Wooyoung gathered his scattered notes. “Sounds good. My brain needs a break from this existential dread.”
They found Mingi and Yunho already entrenched in a debate over the best boba tea flavor. Mingi, with his bright eyes and even brighter laugh, waved them over. Yunho, taller and more composed, offered a warm smile. Yeosang was just sitting back, half-listening to the debate, half-focused on writing up the last of his essay report.
“Finally, the stragglers arrive,” Mingi declared. “We were just about to declare victory for taro.”
“Never,” Wooyoung countered, sliding into a chair. “Matcha reigns supreme.”
“A man of culture, I see,” Yunho approved.
The conversation flowed, a comforting current of university gossip, upcoming exams, and weekend plans. Seonghwa and Hongjoong joined them shortly after, their synchronized movements and soft glances speaking volumes about their relationship.
Wooyoung’s friends, true to their word, became his shadow. San walked him to his morning classes, Mingi and Yunho waited for him after labs, Seonghwa and Hongjoong always made sure he wasn’t alone during meal times and Yeosang always with him, no matter what. The constant companionship was reassuring, dulling the edges of his paranoia.
Yet, there seemed to have been a slight shift between him and Yeosang.
Yeosang was leaning against the brick wall outside Wooyoung’s morning lecture - the hoodie and jeans seeming to highlight the muscles Yeosang had put on, sipping coffee at Wooyoung’s usual spot in the student union - the veins of his hands looking ever so tantalising, lingering near Wooyoung’s favorite vending machine - ‘ever so close, it would merely take a slight trip and he could kiss those lips. Wait what?’ Wooyoung slapped his head, trying to get it out of his head. ‘He’s my best friend, why would I want to kiss him?’ Once, Wooyoung had turned a corner too fast and nearly collided with him, close enough to catch the scent of his cologne—something expensive, like a rich vanilla. Yeosang had steadied him with a hand on his elbow, grip firm but not tight, his thumb brushing the inside of Wooyoung’s wrist in a way that might’ve been accidental. "Careful," he’d murmured, his voice velvety, dripping with sultry notes. ‘Sultry notes? No bad Wooyoung, naughty Wooyoung. Don’t think of your friend like this.’ But Wooyoung couldn’t stop. All his thoughts surrounded Yeosang. It was as if the stalker was completely removed from his mind, all he could think of was Yeosang. Yeosang, Yeosang, Yeosang. What’s going on with him? So he decided that the ultimate, best way to answer it was to go to Hongjoong.
“I don’t know Youngie, sounds like you got a crush on him?”
Wooyoung groaned in response, “But, he’s my friend. My soulmate,” he gestures in madness, “It doesn’t make sense.”
Hongjoong laughs, “It’s obvious. The way you automatically give him space, the way you know how and when to look after him, how you always cook for both of you. You have loved him for a long time. Probably. Yeosang looks at you like you hung the stars.”
“Really hyung?”
“Yes. Now go confess to your boy, I have a bet to win” Wooyoung shrieks, “Is that all I am? A bet to you?” He acts wounded, hand on his heart before flopping on the sofa in Hongjoong’s small studio.
“Scram Wooyoungie and confess. I need to finish this song I’m working on.”
Wooyoung leaves in his steps, wondering how to confess to Yeosang, especially if he believes Hongjoong’s words, that Yeosang probably has had a crush on him for a long time. Oh, why are emotions so hard?
As the days passed, Wooyoung found himself stealing glances at Yeosang. He watched how he interacted with their friends, how he listened intently, and how his eyes sparkled with kindness. It was as if he was seeing Yeosang through a different lens for possibly the first time, and definitely not the last time in his life.
Wooyoung sat on the edge of his bed, staring at his phone. The bright screen lit up his face as he scrolled through pictures of him and his friends. There were so many memories captured in those images—laughing at the park, studying for exams, and sharing snacks during movie nights. But one person stood out in all those pictures: Yeosang.
“Hey, Wooyoung! Are you even listening? ” Yeosang waved a hand in front of Wooyoung’s face, pulling him back to reality.
“Yeah, sorry! Just got lost in thought,” Wooyoung replied, trying to act normal.
Yeosang chuckled, “You always do that. What’s going on in that head of yours? ”
Wooyoung hesitated. Should he tell Yeosang how he felt? What if it changed everything? He decided to keep it to himself for now. “Just thinking about our dance,” he lied.
Yeosang had an inkling it wasn’t the full truth, but he decided to not push Wooyoung. He would tell him in his own time, when he’s ready.
The realization slowly began to bleed into the edges of his consciousness. It wasn’t a lightning strike; it was a slow, encroaching tide. He started noticing the way Yeosang’s laughter—a rare, musical sound—made his own day feel brighter. He caught himself staring at Yeosang’s hands, wondering what it would feel like to lace his fingers through them, not in the platonic camaraderie they’d practiced for years, but with a desperate, crushing intent.
Every touch, once incidental, became a focal point. When Yeosang bumped his shoulder against Wooyoung’s, Wooyoung felt as if he’d been branded. When Yeosang leaned in close to show him a funny video on his phone, the scent of him—cedarwood and rain—drowned out everything else.
The panic started to set in. ‘You’re his best friend’, a voice hissed in his head. ‘You don't get to scramble the map now’. But it seems the map has been scrambled for a long time, and Wooyoung has just noticed.
He tried pulling back, he thought distance would reset the balance, that it could cool the heat simmering in his chest if he stopped feeding the fire. But that made it worse.
“Jung Wooyoung, are you listening?” ‘Oh shit, Yeosang sounds annoyed.’
"You stopped answering your texts," Yeosang said, sitting on the sofa, right in Wooyoung’s line of sight, placing the bags of food onto the coffee table in front. "And don't tell me you're busy. I checked your social media. You’ve been here for hours."
Wooyoung felt trapped. "I’ve just had a lot on my mind, Yeosang. Leave it alone."
Yeosang shifted slightly. He leaned closer, his expression shifting from annoyance to a quiet, piercing observation. He stepped closer, invading the space Wooyoung had been trying so hard to manufacture.
"You’re acting like a stranger," Yeosang said, his tone devoid of its usual mockery. "I know you, Wooyoung. I know when you're hurt, and I know when you're hiding. What’s going on? And I’m pretty sure it’s not the stalker problem this time. So spill."
Wooyoung laughed, a jagged, bitter sound. "Sometimes, you’re so dense. You think I’m avoiding you because I’m annoyed? I’m avoiding you because being near you makes me feel like I’m losing my mind."
Their dorm fell into a silence so profound it felt tectonic. Yeosang didn’t move. He didn’t offer a platitude. He just watched Wooyoung, his eyes searching, processing, reflecting.
"Why?" Yeosang asked, his voice barely a breath.
Wooyoung felt the somewhat flimsy walls of his control finally crumble. He had spent weeks trying to frame this as an inconvenience, a glitch in the system. But standing there, with Yeosang so close he could see the amber flecks in his eyes, he realized this wasn't a mistake. It was the only thing that had ever been true. And will probably always be.
"Because I look at you," Wooyoung confessed, his voice shaking, "and I don’t just see my best friend anymore. I see the only person I ever want to talk to, the only person I want to wake up next to, the only person I want to hold. And it’s killing me, Yeosang. It’s been killing me for months."
Yeosang tilts his head up by the chin. His fingers trembled slightly as the brushed against Wooyoung’s jaw, echoing a phantom touch Wooyoung imagined over a thousand times in his head. Yeosang murmured, his thumb tracing the line of Wooyoung’s lower lip. A small, sad smile touched his lips. “I’ve been waiting for you for a while Young-ah. I’m already halfway in love with you, you idiot. Would you give me the pleasure of being my boyfriend?”
The tension in Wooyoung almost dissolved out of him, his body turning to a puddle of goo.
Yeosang leaned in, his forehead resting against Wooyoung’s.
"You're a menace," Wooyoung breathed against him, his hands finally finding their place at Yeosang’s waist. “It’s my pleasure to be yours. Always and forever.”
"And you're slow," Yeosang replied, his lips brushing against Wooyoung’s. "But I suppose I can work with that."
As they stood in the quiet of the kitchen, the world outside faded into insignificance.
The End. Or so you thought. Because there still was this problem of a stalker, per say.
Part II: The Fracture
You're doing it again," San said, nudging Wooyoung’s shoulder as they sat in a crowded, neon-lit bar. "Looking over your shoulder like someone’s about to jump you. Relax, Woo. We’re all here."
Wooyoung forced a smile, his fingers twitching against the condensation on his glass. Around him sat his fortress: San, Yeosang, Jongho, Mingi, Yunho, Hongjoong and Seonghwa. They were loud, physical, and protective. For the last three months, Wooyoung had refused to go anywhere alone. The sense of being watched had evolved into a visceral certainty. He’d found small things out of place in his apartment—a book moved from the nightstand to the kitchen counter, a scent of expensive, cold cologne lingering in his closet; his clothes being taken, and smelling of something floral; a video suddenly on his phone, of a shadow completing the choreography he had been agonising for; the ingredients for a particular dish on his kitchen shelves.
"I know," Wooyoung whispered, his voice lost under the thumping bass of the music. "I just... I feel like the air is getting thinner."
“You need to sleep more Wooyo, I’ll give you more massages. And install more locks on all our doors and cupboards.” Yeosang commented.
"It’s the stress," Seonghwa added, leaning in. "Stay at my place tonight. We’ll watch movies, lock the deadbolt. You’re safe with us."
After a few hours of watching movies, most of them had fallen asleep; Seonghwa was asleep on the floor, lying against Hongjoong’s lap who was resting by the foot of the sofa, San was using Seonghwa’s legs as a pillow, curled up like a baby, while Jongho used San’s stomach as his own pillow and Yunho and Mingi had cuddled to sleep in the love seat, while Yeosang and Wooyoung remained awake on the sofa, both leaning into each other.
“Wooyoung, what do you think draws you to certain people?” Yeosang asked, glancing at him intently.
“Hmm, I think it’s the bonds we create. You know, that feeling of connection,” Wooyoung replied, tilting his head slightly. “Why do you ask?”
“Oh, just curious” Yeosang said with a smile, “You’re everyone's sunshine. I can’t help but feel jealous at your ease,” but a dark plan began to form in his mind.
It’s nearing graduation, the stalker situation still is not yet resolved, and Wooyoung can only hope that the mysterious person stops soon, he doesn’t want to live the rest of his life with a dark cloud perpetually hanging over his head.
It happened the Tuesday after graduation, a day of mundane routines. San was working a double shift; Seonghwa was out of town for a wedding with Hongjoong; Yeosang was with his family. Wooyoung was supposed to meet Mingi and Jongho at the gym, but Mingi’s car had a sudden, inexplicable tire failure in his driveway—secretely aided by a surgical slice from a scalpel Yeosang kept in his pocket.
Wooyoung stood on the sidewalk, his gym bag slung over his shoulder, checking his phone.
Mingi: "Dude, I'm so sorry. Tire's blown. Can you catch a bus? Or just skip today?"
Wooyoung felt the hum. It was deafening now. The street felt too wide, the shadows of the buildings reaching out like fingers. He felt the familiar prickle on the back of his neck.
Wooyoung: "I'll just walk home. It’s only ten minutes."
He shouldn't have walked. He knew the rules he’d set for himself. But the sun was still out, and the guilt of being "paranoid" was starting to outweigh the fear.
However, he did manage to get home safe. And a few minutes later, Yeosang finally came back, fretting over Wooyoung, scared as if he was going to disappear right in front of his eyes.
Yeosang had made him a cup of his favorite herbal tea. As Wooyoung sipped it, a wave of intense sleepiness washed over him. He remembered leaning his head on Yeosang’s shoulder, the soft murmur of Yeosang’s voice, and then… nothing.
Part III: The Gilded Cage
Wooyoung woke up to a complete lack of familiar surroundings. The air was cool and still, carrying a faint scent of something woody and earthy. He was lying on a soft, firm mattress in a room he didn't recognize. Sunlight streamed through a window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. Panic began to bloom in his chest. He sat up, looking around. The room was simple, almost spartan, but clean. A wooden dresser, a small table, and a single chair. No personal items, no photographs. It felt… curated. He tried to recall how he got there, yet a cold dread crept into his heart.
He tried to sit up, but his limbs felt like they belonged to someone else. His ankles were heavy.
"You’re awake."
Yeosang was sitting in a high-backed velvet chair in the corner of the room, legs crossed, a book open on his lap. He looked like he had been sitting there for an eternity.
"Where... where am I?" Wooyoung’s voice was a fractured rasp.
"Home," Yeosang said, closing the book. He stood up and walked toward the bed. "A place where the 'static' can't reach you. No San. No Mingi. No prying eyes. Just us."
"You’re insane," Wooyoung spat, the fear finally manifesting as sharp, jagged anger. He tried to lunge at Yeosang, but the drug's lingering effects sent him tumbling back onto the silk. "They’ll find me. They’ll call the police. You can't just—"
"They won't find you," Yeosang interrupted, his tone conversational. "I’ve already sent messages from your phone. You’ve gone on a 'soul-searching' trip. A sudden burnout. You told them not to contact you. And since you’ve been so erratic lately, they believed it. They’re worried, yes, but they’re giving you 'space'."
Yeosang knelt beside the bed, reaching out a hand to brush a stray hair from Wooyoung’s forehead. Wooyoung flinched violently, but Yeosang didn't pull away. He softly gripped Wooyoung’s chin, not with enough force to bruise, but with a terrifying, unyielding strength.
“It’s not funny, Yeosang. Please.” He pleaded as much as he could.
Yeosang walked closer, his eyes never leaving Wooyoung’s. "This is not funny, Wooyoung. This is necessary."
"Necessary for what?" Wooyoung demanded, taking a step back.
"For us," Yeosang replied, his voice taking on a strange, intense quality. "For you. For me. I can't bear the thought of you with anyone else. Not even the world outside. You belong to me, Wooyoung. We belong to each other. And now you are."
Wooyoung stared at him, his heart pounding. The Yeosang he knew was gone, replaced by this stranger with an unsettling obsession. "Yeosang, you're scaring me. This is wrong. This is not love."
Yeosang’s jaw tightened. "Love is about possession. It's about keeping what is precious safe, away from the dangers of the world. And you, my love, are the most precious thing in my world." He reached out, his fingers brushing Wooyoung’s cheek. Wooyoung flinched away.
"Don't," Wooyoung whispered, his eyes wide with fear.
Yeosang’s expression softened for a fleeting moment, a flicker of the old Yeosang. "I would never hurt you, Wooyoung. I just want to keep you all to myself. To cherish you. To make sure you're mine, and mine alone." He gestured around the room. "This is our sanctuary. Here, no one can take you from me. Here, we can just be us."
“This is our sanctuary. Here, no one can take you from me. Here, we can just be us."
Wooyoung felt a surge of anger mixed with his fear. "This isn't 'us,' Yeosang! This is you controlling me! This is you taking away my freedom!"
Part IV: The Sculpting
The first week was a blur of defiance. Wooyoung screamed until his throat bled. He refused to eat the meticulously prepared meals Yeosang brought him. He tried to use something, anything to stop Yeosang, he found a silver chain to garrote Yeosang, but Yeosang simply pinned him to the floor with a calm, surgical precision, injected him with a sedative, and waited for him to wake up so they could start again.
The "grooming" was not violent. It was not assault. It was worse. It was a systematic removal of Wooyoung’s autonomy, replaced with Yeosang’s presence.
Yeosang was the one who bathed him. When Wooyoung was too weak from a hunger strike to stand, Yeosang would carry him to the attached marble bathroom, undress him with reverence, and scrub his skin with a sponge until it was pink and raw. He would talk to him the entire time—an endless, soft monologue about their childhood, about how Yeosang had kept a lock of Wooyoung’s hair from a haircut in third grade, about how he had orchestrated the "accidents" of anyone who had ever truly threatened Yeosang’s 'claim' over him.
Isolation is a powerful poison. Without the sun, without the voices of his friends, Wooyoung’s mind began to fracture. He started to lose track of days. He tried to keep his fire, it was almost as if Yeosang wanted it. Wanted to see that defiance, knowing he could always put it out easily. But it stayed, Wooyoung sometimes threw the plates, sometimes he argued back on the random conversation Yeosang pulled him in.
The only constant was Yeosang. Yeosang, who brought him food that tasted like heaven when he was starving. Yeosang, who held him when he had night terrors. Yeosang, who was the only source of warmth in the cool, leather-padded world.
Yeosang began to dress him in clothes of his choosing—fine fabrics, laces, silks. Clothes to highlight him. They were always in bold colours. As if taunting him. He treated Wooyoung like a living sculpture. He would spend hours simply watching Wooyoung sleep.
The psychological manipulation was subtle. Yeosang would withhold his presence for twenty-four hours, leaving Wooyoung in total darkness and silence. By the time the door opened and the amber light spilled in, Wooyoung would find himself weeping with relief, crawling forwards just to touch Yeosang’s shoes. Yeosang never said anything, always lifted him up with gentle care.
"Please," Wooyoung would sob, his face pressed against the floor. "Don't leave me alone again."
"Are you going to be good for me?" Yeosang would ask, lifting him up and cradling him like a child. "Are you mine?"
"Yes," Wooyoung would whisper, the words tasting like ash and honey. "I'm yours. Just stay."
Part V: The Maker’s Pleasure
To Wooyoung, time had ceased to be a linear concept. There was only the Before (the loud, chaotic, terrifying world of 'friends') and the Now (the soft, scented, silver-lined world of Yeosang).
The grooming was complete. Wooyoung no longer fought. He no longer thought of escape. The door might as well have been a hallucination for all the interest he showed in it. He spent his days in the bungalow, sometimes doing the domestic work, always waiting for the sound of Yeosang’s footsteps.
This time, Yeosang was in the living room, he led Wooyoung onto the sofa, watching a K-Drama Wooyoung always complained about, saying the main lead was too oblivious to notice the love interest as a raging red flag. But now, it’s only a bittersweet feeling. How could he not notice Yeosang?
He stood, pulling Wooyoung up with him. The silk bit into Wooyoung’s wrists as he was guided toward the center of the room. Yeosang wasn't a man of brute force; he was a man of calculated architecture. He understood exactly how to dismantle a person, layer by layer, until all that remained was a raw, aching need for the very hand that had undone them.
As the evening deepened into night, the atmosphere in the room grew suffocating. Yeosang moved with a slow, deliberate grace, undressing Wooyoung not with haste, but with the reverence one might show a priceless artifact. Every brush of his fingers against Wooyoung’s skin felt like a brand. It was a methodical erosion of Wooyoung’s defenses.
"Look at yourself," Yeosang whispered into the shell of his ear, his breath hot, his hands traveling down the curve of Wooyoung's spine. "You want this. Your body is already betraying your pride."
Wooyoung squeezed his eyes shut, his nails digging into his palms. The frustration of his predicament clashed violently with the biological reality of his body reacting to Yeosang’s touch. The place was soundproof, isolated from the rest of the world, and there was no one coming to save him. The isolation was a stimulant, heightening every nerve ending, making the slightest touch feel like an electric shock.
Yeosang backed him against the wall, pressing his weight against him. He wasn't aggressive, which made it all the more terrifying. He was possessive, possessive in a way that felt like drowning. He kissed the side of Wooyoung’s neck, his teeth grazing the skin with a precision that made Wooyoung gasp.
He began to work at the ties, but he didn't remove them. Instead, he pulled them taut, pinning Wooyoung’s hands above his head against the wallpaper. The act was intimate, invasive, making butterflies flutter in Wooyoung’s stomach. ‘Was this turning me on?’ he panicked, believing himself to have truly surrendered to his body, his mind notwithstanding.
Yeosang’s hands wandered, mapping out every inch of Wooyoung’s torso, his touch lingering in places designed to elicit a response. His fingers tweaked and pinched his nipples, his back arching into the touch, panting when the fingers withdrew to only flutter lower down his body. He watched Wooyoung’s face, his eyes dilated, cataloging every flushed cheek and ragged breath. He was studying Wooyoung, learning his rhythm, learning how to make the younger man unravel.
It was a dance of power. Wooyoung felt the familiar, treacherous pull of surrender, the urge to give in just to make the tension snap. He hated Yeosang for the kidnap, for the betrayal of his freedom, but in the dark, with the cold rain hammering against the world they had left behind, the boundaries were blurring.
Yeosang lowered his lips to Wooyoung’s, stealing the air from his lungs as he always did. The kiss tasted of betrayal, like the bitter scent of deep pine.
"Look at me, Wooyoung-ah," Yeosang commanded gently.
Wooyoung lifted his head. His eyes, once vibrant and dancing with mischief, were now wide, vacant pools of devotion and fear.
Yeosang reached in his pocket to bring out a box. The box opened to reveal a collar. It was black leather, lined with chrome hearts on the leather and white silk embroidered on the borders with a small silver bell and an engraving on the inner plate.
Property of K.Y.S.
Yeosang smiled at the slight nod he received from Wooyoung — a genuine, radiant smile that would have looked beautiful if not for the darkness behind it. He unlocked the silver shackle from Wooyoung’s ankle and fastened the collar around his neck. The fit was perfect.
Yeosang moved over him, a silhouette of grace and dominance, and as he began to claim him, the world outside ceased to exist entirely. There was only the room, the silk, and the man who had traded everything else in his life just to keep Wooyoung for himself.
Outside, the world continued. San and Jongho occasionally looked at old photos and wondered why Wooyoung had never called. Seonghwa sometimes walked past the alley by the library and felt a strange, lingering chill. Mingi and Yunho sometimes wondered in the back of their heads if Wooyoung would have liked what they had become. But for Wooyoung, the world had shrunk to the size of a bungalow and the sound of a silver bell.