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Chapter Text

Nishimura Riki .19

Top. Main lead.

Japanese transfer student. 

Studying: Architecture.

Oblivious, hot, kind at heart. 

A Dom. Middle class.

“Why do you all make my heart ache in different ways…"

Lee Heeseung . 22

The rich arrogant possessive one. Wealthy as hell. Cold and calculating.

Studying: Business Administration.

Bottom and a carrier. 

Thinks money can buy everything.

"I could buy the world a hundred times over, but none of it matters if I can’t have you. So tell me, Riki... what do I have to destroy to be yours?"

Park SungHoon . 21.

The ice prince playboy. Emotionally unavailable. Doesn't do love.

Studying: Fashion Design.

Bottom and future carrier. Rich.

"You think I don’t care? You think I’m cold? Then explain why I burn every time someone touches you. You're mine, even if I never say it out loud."

Sim Jaeyun 21.

The hot nerd with Dom energy. Glasses, brains, and confidence.

Studying: computer engineering.

Bottom with a Dom energy. Carrier. Rich.

"I swear, Riki, if you ever give your smile to someone else, I’ll lose it. I’ve waited my whole life to be seen—don’t you dare look away now."

Park Jongseong .21.

The bad boy. Smokes, fights, skips class.

Studying: Literature.

Bottom and future carrier. Rich.

"I don’t care if I have to burn this whole world down. If keeping you means going to hell, then I’ll smile on the way there."

Kim Sunoo. 20

The shy angel. Sweet and soft to everyone, but turns deadly when jealous.

Studying: performing Arts.

Bottom and a carrier. Rich.

"I know I seem sweet, but the thought of you choosing someone else? It makes me want to break something. Or someone. You're my calm... and my chaos."

Yang Jungwon. 20.

The cold basketball captain. Respected, athletic, strict.

Studying: sports science. Rich.

"Why does it hurt when you talk to someone else? Why do I want to lock you away where only I can see you? Damn it, Riki... what the hell have you done to me?"

✦ Author's Note ✦

Hey everyone!

This is my first Enhypen fanfiction, and I truly hope you’ll support and enjoy the world I’ve created.

✧ Please, no hate — I’ve poured a lot of time, thought, and love into planning this. If it’s not your thing, you’re welcome to simply scroll away.

✧ I do not own any of the Enhypen members — this is purely a work of fiction and imagination.

---

✧ Things to Take Note Of:

🩸 Bottoms in this story are possessive and obsessive over their love interest — some due to trauma, some just by nature. But this story is also about healing, growth, and second chances.

🌸 Carriers: Characters born with wombs. They experience monthly bleeding, emotional sensitivity, cravings, clinginess, and mood swings.

🧪 Future Carriers: Characters who do not have wombs at birth but may develop one later through experimental drugs or treatments. It's part of this universe’s biological evolution.

🕯 Magic: A light thread of black magic exists. This isn't a fantasy world — it’s a modern setting with a hidden sect that taps into dark arts.

💗 Polyamorous Relationship: This is a reverse harem-style story with Ni-ki as the Top, and the rest as Bottoms. Everyone will be deeply entangled in love, lust, chaos, and complicated feelings.

---

The characters are messy.

They’ll make mistakes.

Terrible ones, even.

But love isn’t always gentle — sometimes it’s wild, raw, and worth every scar.

⚠ Content Warnings:

Mentions of past abuse

Violence

Mpreg / carrier dynamics

Hierarchy-based relationships

Obsession / trauma

Reverse harem

Possessive behavior

Occasional explicit scenes —

→ I don’t really know how to write smut yet, but I’ll try. There will always be clear warnings before those chapters for readers who want to skip.

Prologue:

The sharp click of her heels echoed in the alleyway, a haunting rhythm against the stillness of the night. The pavement was slick with grime, a half open dustbin spilling rotting waste onto the cracked concrete. A rat squealed, darting from a hole to rummage through the filth.

Above her, the sky hung heavy with a brewing storm. Thunder rolled low in the distance, and the wind caught the edge of her cloak, lifting it like a whisper of danger.

She moved forward without hesitation. Beneath the cloak, her gown shimmered gold under the flickering streetlight,  far too regal for a place like this. Her eyes, kohl-darkened and unreadable beneath the hood, scanned the shadows ahead. Bangles clinked softly on her wrists. Her earrings caught the light, glinting like tiny blades.

"You have arrived", said a cloaked figure, their voice low and cautious, almost lost in the wind. They stood against a wall drowned in layers of graffiti, eyes scanning the alley for movement.

She gave a single nod. Her earrings clinked softly, a sound too elegant for a place so forgotten.

The figure turned and pressed their palm flat against the wall. A door, nearly invisible beneath the chaotic spray paint, creaked open. Without a word, she followed.

The door slammed shut behind them with a metallic hiss, like a secret sealing itself shut.

------------------

"What is it you seek, Miss Kagami?" The man stood draped in a black gown, tight at the edges, rumpled down the middle. A red kohl triangle marked his forehead, with white powder dusted beneath both eyes. His hair was braided at the front, beads shaped like eagles nestled within the strands. In one hand, he held a tall, snake-headed staff, its jeweled eyes glinting in the dim light. Legs spread wide, he stared down at the woman seated before him, power oozing from every angle.

"Why else would I be here, Matsumoto?" she said, her eyes flicking over the dark room.

The place reeked of darkness and old rituals. Black curtains hung heavy from the ceiling, strands of skull beads swaying like silent sentries. A red carpet stretched underfoot, etched with symbols she couldn't decipher. The air was thick with incense—something old and bitter—clouding the room in an eerie, suffocating haze.

"It's my sister. I want her and her son out of my life for good. Even with all the things you gave me to make her husband want only me, it still isn’t working the way I want. He still loves that boy, and I don’t like it. He must not have the Nishimura name, nor the empire. Only my son should have that right." Her voice snapped like a whip.

"Then you've come prepared?" he asked, voice low and serpentine.

Miss Kagami reached into the folds of her cloak and produced a small, neatly folded shirt—clearly a child’s. Light blue, soft cotton, worn at the seams. She held it between two fingers, as if it dirtied her to even touch it.

The man took it with reverence, his eyes gleaming.

"His baby scent is strong. This will do perfectly." He examined the cloth. "What's the child's name?"

"Nishimura Riki."

He turned, moving to a low, bone-carved table at the center of the room. Strange jars lined the shelves behind him—some glowing faintly, others twitching with things still moving inside. He placed the cloth into a shallow bowl etched with runes, then reached for a black bottle.

As the liquid hit the fabric, it hissed, steaming as if it hated being touched. The man began to chant, words twisted and ancient, dragging the smoke from the incense into unnatural shapes.

The cloth ignited in a silent burst of purple flame.

"And now," he said, voice rasping like dry leaves, "this will turn into a potion. When he drinks it, the boy will begin to slip."

Kagami raised a brow. "Slip?"

"From himself," the man whispered, as if savoring the words. "He will become... other. Feral. Half-mad. A shell that obeys no one—not even his own mother."

A smile ghosted across Kagami's lips. She crossed one leg over the other. "Good." She leaned back, eyes glinting. "Exactly what I want. I want to see what Nishimura will do when he realizes his son is a monster."

--------------------------

"The poison has weakened, no longer spreading—but it cannot be undone by potion or spell. He will still have episodes. Only true love can break what remains. When he finds the one meant for him, and they share themselves completely, body and soul, he will be free. He will come back to himself. Completely.".

Chapter Text

Glassed eyes peeked over the rim of a book across the library, a dreamy sigh escaping his lips. His bottom lip was caught between his teeth, gnawed red and sore. He didn't even notice the novel in his hands was upside down.

"Be the Romeo", it read - the title printed in bold on the reversed cover. The library was silent, the kind of silence where even a pin drop would echo.

Meet Kim Sunoo, the school's soft spoken angel. Dressed in a pale blue cardigan and oversized Louis Vuitton jeans, glasses perched delicately on his nose, he sat curled in the quiet corner. But his attention wasn't on the book, not even close.

He was tuned in to every tiny sigh that slipped from across the room. Frustrated sighs. Relieved one. The soft breath of someone stretching. Sunoo devoured them all like slurped noodles...because even the sound of sighing was attractive when it came from him.

Nishimura Riki.

A new fresher. An architecture major. And Sunoo's private obsession from the moment he accidentally collided with him in the hallway.

Today, Riki was dressed in black jeans hugging his thighs - thighs that could ruin someone's life - and a fitted black turtleneck clinging to his chest like a sinful prayer. A baggy, short-sleeved button-up shirt hung over it, four buttons undone like an invitation. His silver chain glinted against the material. A baseball cap pushed his dark hair back, forehead shining under the library lights, giving him the look of a prince who stepped straight out of a fever dream.

Sunoo swore, if Riki wore nothing but that chain, sweat dripping down his body, he would gladly lick it off and still want more.

Don't be deceived, Sunoo might be innocent and shy but he is dirty minded.

And yet, Riki sat like he didn't know he was divine. Like he was just another student. Just another architecture major flipping through floor plans, completely unaware that he looked like a Vogue cover model doing it.

"At least make it subtle. You're practically undressing him with your eyes". Yeonjun whispered with a quiet giggle, nudging Sunoo under the table.

The thing is, they were supposed to be meeting up with SungHoon. But the moment Sunoo spotted Riki heading towards the library, he had grabbed Yeonjun by the sleeve and dragged him along without explanation.

Now here they were, hiding behind a book - they are not reading - stalking Sunoo's love interest.

"Just look at him", Sunoo breathed, eyes still locked on Riki like he was the Louvre's last masterpiece. "How can I not undress him with my eyes when he looks like a Dom daddy with his leg in a man spread like that".

Yeonjun choked on air.

"It's always the innocent looking ones with dirty thoughts". He whispered. "You're out of pocket. Absolutely ".

Sunoo just smiled, dreamy and deranged. "If loving that man is a sin, then send me to hell hundred times".

"wow". Yeonjun's eyes were wide behind the book. "You should just go talk to him. Aren't you guys in some.... acquaintance kind of thing?"

"You can't call it that," Sunoo whispered, shaking his head. "We don't even talk that much".

I mean, saying 'hi' and smiling at someone doesn't automatically make you acquaintances, right?

"Besides, I don't think I'd survive if he actually looked at me", he added, voice dropping like a confession. "His eyes...they could freeze a soul".

Yeonjun snorted quietly. "So you're telling me, if he looked at you right now...you'd just freeze?"

"Something like that, cause....." Sunoo's words died in his throat. Because looking back now, Riki was looking at him. Directly at him.

And just like that, every organ in Sunoo's body locked up like a cursed spell had been cast. His heart thundered in his ear at a terrifying pace. His blood has stopped circulating, the air he was supposed to breathe in has been forgotten. And his thoughts has evaporated like steam.

And suddenly they weren't in a library anymore. The world had narrowed into one singular, slow-motion frame : Riki, looking at him with those insanely captivating eyes that belonged on some ancient deity.

Sunoo was this close to spiraling into full meltdown mode when.....

Riki smiled. Softly. At him.

Sunoo let out a strangled screech and immediately ducked behind his book like it was a shield from judgement.

A few annoyed "shhh"s echoed around the library. Yeonjun was wheezing silently beside him, tears in his eyes, apologizing on his behalf.

Sunoo, meanwhile, could still feel his heart threatening to break out of his chest and file a restraining order against him.

'Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Did I just ruin my image? Does he think I'm pathetic now? Oh god. No, please, crushie....don't hate me!'

No one needed to tell Sunoo something was wrong , he felt it. In the way Yeonjun suddenly went quiet. Deadly quiet. Too quiet for someone who just wheezed through a whole laughing fit.

Then the nudging came, soft and urgent. Followed by a barely there blush and a mumbled, "He's coming here".

Sunoo's breath hitched. Panic bloomed in his chest like a fire alarm. His palms went clammy, his heartbeat rioting inside his ribcage like it had just seen its own crush. Oh no. Oh no. He was going to stutter again...he always stuttered when he was nervous and that was .. God, so embarrassing.

"Sunoo-sii".

The deep rumble of that voice nearly knocked him out of his seat. A shiver shot down Sunoo's spine like a lightning strike. His nose betrayed him. He could no longer breathe through it. He opened his mouth, desperate for air, like someone gasping for salvation. Because holy hell. Gosh.

Was this it? Was this the moment Riki would ask to sit next to him? On this mortal plane? Then ask him out? And then Sunoo would never let go?

He looked up slowly, eyes wide behind his glasses, hopeful and expecting.

And fuck....up close, Riki was the personification of Attractive. The blueprint tube slung off his shoulder should be illegal. His face was a sin and his aura was just......sighs.

"You dropped your pen", Riki said, pointing to a blue pen lying beside Sunoo's feet.

Sunoo deflated.

Oh.

Riki bent down to pick it up, and his scent hit Sunoo like a warm balm. Musk...with a hint of mint. Sunoo's brain cells sighed in surrender.

Riki held the pen out to Sunoo as he stood up straight.

Sunoo stared at it like it was glowing. That.....was not his pen. He'd never seen it before. His own pen was the fluffy one....pink, obnoxious, with a teddy bear head that squeaked. This was plain, boring black. Something he was pretty sure he'd stepped on earlier.

And now Riki was holding it. Riki's hands touched it.

Oh my god. If he was to take it, won't that basically be an indirect kiss?? And - oh god - look at those veins on his hands. If that hand was to pin him against a wall.....

He must have spiraled too long, because Yeonjun nudged him sharply back into reality. Sunoo blinked, heart going haywire, and tucked his hair behind his ear.

"Ah, yeah...it must've fallen", he mumbled, mentally patting himself on the back for not stuttering. He took the pen from Riki, making very sure his fingers brushed the other's. A jolt zipped down his spine. Electric.

Riki smiled. Smiled. And Sunoo's heart did a full cartwheel into an early grave.

He watched helplessly as Riki walked away, lips forming a pout of despair. Couldn't he have stayed just a little longer?

It had been two months since Riki joined the college. Sunoo bumped into him six weeks ago - forty two days. Which was 1,008 hours, 60,480 minutes.....3,628,800 seconds. And that was exactly how long he had been crushing hard. Still no progress. Just the occasional "hi", "hello", and that smile.

Sunoo sighed like a tragic romance lead.

"What was that about? That's not even your pen", Yeonjun whispered once Riki stepped out of the library.

Sunoo clutched the pen like a prized artifact. "Just look at him, Jun. You froze too, right? There's something about his eyes that makes you stop everything....just to stare. Like, your brain physically halts".

He glanced down at the pen. Not his favorite color. But for Riki?

"For Riki...." He whispered, reverent. "I'm going to start a Riki showcase collection in my walk-in closet. And this...is the first exhibit".

Yeonjun blinked, speechless. He wanted to argue -- wanted to say he didn't freeze. But...he did. Riki had those tiny, sharp eyes that could freeze a ghost and make it fall in love.

"... SungHoon's probably waiting for us", he muttered, trying to pretend his heart didn't skip a beat too.

•••••

The door slammed shut behind him. Before SungHoon could fully register the darkness of the cramped Janitor's closet, soft hands shoved him back against the door, lips crashing into his with desperate force. He barely had time to breathe before the girl kissed him like she was trying to steal the air from his lungs.

It was frantic. Hot. Messy. He enjoyed the thrill.

His fingers tangled in her hair, yanking her closer, drawing out a soft moan that buzzed against his lips. He wasn't entirely sure who she was - some girl who'd confessed to him in the cafeteria minutes ago - but he was too high on adrenaline to care.

Sunoo and Yeonjun, those bastards, had ditched him. Thirty minutes wasted waiting for them, only to end up with this random girl spilling her heart out like a lovesick puppy. Perfect. Pathetic. Who even does love anymore?

He'd break her heart after the blowjob. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe after class.

Right now, he was enjoying the high...the thrill of being wanted.

Their breaths tangled, lips sliding , tongues battling for dominance. Her hands were quick and eager, fumbling with the buttons of his Versace shirt, fingers skating over his chest like she owned it. He let her touch.

Then, with a low growl, he grabbed her hair and yanked her head back, his mouth dropping to her neck, biting, licking, leaving wet trails on her skin, that made her moan loudly.

The Janitor's closet was thick with the sound of rustling fabric, heavy breaths, and muted moans. Then he stopped. Pulled back slightly, just enough to lock eyes with her - wild, breathless, lips red and swollen from his kiss.

His own smirk was slow, lazy, and dangerous.

He unbuckled his belt, the soft clink of metal echoing in the tight space.

"On your knees, pretty girl", he murmured, voice low and filthy, like smoke curling from a flame.

She dropped immediately, eyes fixed on the bulge in his jeans like a starving girl being offered dessert. Her gaze was wide, dazed, mouth already parted in anticipation as she looked back up at him.

He chuckled darkly, brushing his thumb across her cheek, then down to her lips, gently parting them. His thumb slipped into her mouth, slow and deliberate, rubbing over her tongue, her gums, dragging spit out to smear across her flushed cheeks.

"Come on", he whispered, tilting her chin. "Show me what you've got". She was quick. Eager.

The sound of his zipper echoed in the quiet. Her mouth wrapped around him, warm and wet, and his head dropped back with a moan, the tension slipping from his muscles all at once.

Sunlight trickled through the small, grimy window above, casting a glow across his face as he let out a long, satisfied breath. The birds chirped outside - painfully innocent - muffling the soft obscene sounds behind the closet door.

-----

SungHoon watched with a blank expression as the girl sprinted down the hallway, her sobs echoing faintly, arms wrapped around her face like she could hide from what just happened. Tears streaked her cheeks. She didn't even look back.

He stood outside the Janitor's closet, casually adjusting his trousers, fingers swift and practiced as he zipped up and buckled his belt. The mess behind him? Forgotten already.

It had been fun while it lasted.

Meet Park SungHoon - the ice prince, the untouchable playboy. He doesn't chase. People throw themselves at him. It's the curse of being beautiful, he figures. Heartbreaker by reputation, heartless by choice. They all know who he is. They know what he does. And yet, they keep coming. Just for a taste.

The girl from the closet was pathetic. She thought she could be the exception. Thought she'd be the one to "change him". Cute.

He scoffed, running a hand through his perfectly tousled hair. She'd asked if they could "do it again", if they could "be more". He told her no. And somehow he was the villain?

It's not his fault.

They crawl to him, beg for him, give him their everything, just so they could pretend he cares, pretend they matter. And he lets them.

Because that's the only time he feels anything.

He learned early: love is stupid. It ends in pain. It weakens people. Makes them foolish. He's not like them. Never.

(Especially not like his best friend, who still believed in that idiotic concept. He likes Rishi? Niri? Niki? Whatever)

He chose to be wise.

He pulled out his favorite silk handkerchief, dabbing away the lipstick smudges on his neck and jaw. A smear of gloss on his collarbone made him tsk. Sloppy. He wiped it clean.

From the pouch hooked onto his designer trousers, he retrieved a clear gloss tube - Dior, obviously - and reapplied it with ease. His lips gleamed again, like nothing ever touched them.

He moved to the mirror propped against the wall. Tilted his head and then winked.

"Handsome as ever".

Satisfied, he slipped the gloss back into the pouch, straightened his collar, and turned on his heel. His Gucci loafers clicked with purpose against the cold tiled floor as he walked away without a glance back.

No regrets. No second thoughts.

And definitely..... No love.

••••

Riki panted as he sprinted down the hallway, dodging students who muttered curses behind him. A bead of sweat trailed from his forehead down to his temple, tickling his skin.

He was late - thirty minutes late. Today was supposed to be his first basketball practice. Great way to make a first impression.

Not that it was his fault. He'd spent the early afternoon stuck in admin hell, submitting paperwork and finally getting his name officially registered in the university's system. Something that should've been done weeks ago. But of course, the registrar was a walking fossil. Can you believe he just got his ID? Until then, he was forced to use a temporary slip to get past the front gates like some undercover freshman.

He stopped outside the basketball arena's double doors, breathing hard. He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, then straightened up, adjusting the strap of his backpack.

Okay. Deep breath. It's not going to be that bad.... Right?

He pushed the door open.

The sound hit him first. Sneakers squeaking against polished floor, basketballs thudding against the floor, low chatter mixing with bursts of laughter. The indoor court was massive, almost like a mini stadium. Cream and brown tones stretched across the space. A small whiteboard stood near center court, notes already scrawled across it in dry-ease marker.

Several players were already warming up - some dribbling, some casually tossing balls toward the net, others messing around like they owned the place.

Riki's eyes scanned the upper seating. A raised pavilion wrapped around the court, lined with scattered students watching the action below. Most were girls, giggling and whispering, joined by a few impeccably dressed Twink boys, all with phones out and eyes locked on the players.

He took a step forward.

BAM!

A ball shot towards his face - but with quick reflexes, Riki caught it just inches before impact. His fingers curled around the leather instinctively, muscles tense, veins poking from his hands. His gaze snapped towards the court.

That ball didn't come flying by accident. Someone had aimed.

Riki blinked at the ball in his hand. He looked up slowly.

Across the court stood a tall figure - though Riki was pretty sure he had a few centimeters on him. Arms crossed, one brow arched ever so slightly, the guy stared back with a blank, unreadable expression, cold and sharp. His blonde hair was slicked back under a headband, not a strand out of place. A cream colored tank top clung to his torso, tucked into black basketball shorts. A lemon green leather warm-up jacket was knotted across his chest like an accessory. He looked like someone important. Probably a senior.

But that was the least of Riki's concerns right now.

He didn't know who this guy was, but clearly, he held weight around the court. Weather a captain or just an ego on legs, Riki knew he had to make a solid first impression.

So, ignoring the fact that this shawty just nearly - intentionally - dented his pretty face with a basketball, Riki plastered on a polite, professional smile and stepped forward.

"I'm Nishimura Riki", he introduced, tone even but friendly. "Sorry for being late....I got caught up with admin stuff".

He bowed slightly, just enough to show respect.

The guy didn't move. Just stared him down like Riki was gum stuck to the sole of his very expensive sneakers. His lips curled , and he scoffed, voice flat and biting.

"Trash".

Riki's smile twitched. Excuse me?

He barely had time to react before the guy added coolly, "you're late".

No shit.

"Punctuality is strictly enforced here", he continued, like Riki hadn't just given a reasonable explanation. "If you can't arrive on time, maybe this place isn't for you".

Riki stared at the boy, one brow raised. This guy...

He took a breath, keeping his cool. "I'm sorry, but it won't happen again. Please....just give me a chance ", he said, voice steady but firm. "I've got a pardon slip from the admin office. That's proof I was with them. That's why I'm late ".

He slipped off his backpack, rummaged quickly, and pulled out the crumpled slip. The red inked PARDON stamp sat bold over the official crest. He extended it toward the boy.

The shawty didn't even blink.

He looked at the slip like it was an expired candy bar. Like touching it might rot his fingers. His expression didn't change...not a flicker of interest, empathy, or understanding. Just cold silence.

By now, the players on the court had stopped what they were doing. Balls stopped bouncing. Laughter died out. The whole arena fell into a weird, thick silence...eyes flicking between the two boys standing in the center.

"Pardoned", the shawty said at last, voice cool and detached. He stared at the slip like it was some sort of joke, then at Riki like he was the punchline. "But you're going to sit by the corner until I say otherwise".

And just like that, he turned and walked past Riki, heading toward the ball rack like the conversation was over.

Riki stared after him in disbelief. No fucking way. This was trials, not preschool. And he was just supposed to sit quietly in a corner and wait for mama to grant him permission?

Hell no.

"This can't be how it works", Riki said, frown etched deep across his face. "Where's the coach? I'm sure he'll say otherwise".

His earlier attempt at politeness had long burned away. A couple of players nearby let out quiet gasps, eyes wide.

The blonde stopped mid-step. He didn't even fully turn back - just angled his head, sharp and cold like a blade. "I am the captain", he said flatly. "And until the coach shows up, my word is law. So sit. Down. Until I say otherwise".

Shawty—now officially certified as a jerk—turned on his heel and walked back toward the other players. Without sparing Riki another glance, he brought the whistle hanging from his neck to his lips and blew it, loud and sharp.

"Trials begin now. Assemble!" his voice rang out, crisp and commanding.

Meet Yang Jungwon. Cold, calculated, and captain of the university basketball team. Whatever he said was law around here—and no one dared question him.

Not because they liked him. Because they feared him.

He’d earned his stripes as a high school MVP, dominating tournaments with ease, praised for his technique, speed, and unnerving precision. But while some saw raw talent, others whispered behind his back: Nepo baby. His cousin, a former captain, had graduated recently and passed down the title like a family heirloom.

Some players called it favoritism. Jungwon called it irrelevant. He knew what he was capable of—and more importantly, so did the coach. He wasn’t here to earn approval. He was here to win.

Back near the entrance, Riki grumbled under his breath as he dragged himself to the far corner of the court like a punished child.

"Arrogant much," he muttered. "Rich people and their stupidity."

He dropped his bag with a quiet sigh and sat down against the wall, legs stretched out in front of him, arms folded. He didn’t want trouble. His mom had warned him—Don’t get too angry. Not with your condition.

So yeah. He’d bite it back this time. He’d wait it out. The almighty captain would have to call him eventually, right?

Right?

Wrong.

Jungwon never called him. Not once. Not even when the trials ended.

••••

Riki wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand as he trudged home after a long shift at the restaurant. The sun was sinking behind the skyline, bathing the world in soft hues of orange and pink - pretty, but not enough to soothe the ache in his legs or the scowl on his face.

In one hand, he carried a bag of groceries. In the other, a small gift bag. His blueprint tube hung loosely across his back, and his backpack was slipping off one shoulder with every few steps.

He was tired. He was hungry. But most importantly - he was angry.

The captain was an asshole. A stupid, egotistic, arrogant asshole. And Riki was sure he'd never like him.

That shawty of a captain had made him sit in the corner for the entire trial, hadn't spared him so much as a glance afterward, and had dismissed him with a flippant, "Maybe next time", like he wasn't even worth the breath.

We're all rich people like this? Looking down on others for simply not being born into money? Calling someone trash the moment they stepped into the room, just because their shoes weren't designer?

Riki was still offended. Deeply. And to top it off, he got late for his shift. But.....don't get angry, he reminded himself.

Not with your condition.

Riki pushed open the door to the small apartment he shared with his mother. It wasn't much, tucked away in a quiet colony on the edge of a slump...but it was warm, lived in, and filled with love.

The familiar scent of fried fish hit him the moment he stepped into the narrow living room, making his stomach grumble in response. His eyes softened as they landed on his mother, humming gently in the cramped kitchen just off to the side. She wore her favorite apron, its once vibrant patterns faded from years of use, and her hips swayed unconsciously to the soft japanese song playing on the little radio he had bought her a few months ago.

A quiet smile tugged at Riki's lips.

The exhaustion, the hunger, the lingering frustration - it all melted away like steam off boiling water.

He bent down, setting the grocery bag, gift bag, his tube and backpack gently by his side before undoing his shoelaces. He placed them neatly beside his mother's slippers on the rack, the tiny domestic ritual grounding him in peace.

The he picked up the grocery bag again and gift bag, sparing one last glance at his bag and tube . He'd come back for them later.

He tiptoed toward the kitchen, quiet as a mouse. His mother’s back was to him, her attention fixed on the vegetables she was rinsing under the sink. Without a word, he set the grocery bag down on the counter, then slipped his arms around her from behind, enveloping her in a warm hug.

She let out a soft gasp, then relaxed into his embrace with a familiar laugh.

“Ki!” she giggled, her hands still working through the water. “When did you get in?”

“Just a few minutes ago,” he murmured, nuzzling gently into the curve of her neck. “I’m so hungry. And tired.” His breath tickled her skin.

She clucked softly in response, her tone laced with concern. “Dinner’s almost ready. Go freshen up. I’ll massage your shoulders after we eat. You must be sore all over.”

Riki smiled, heart full. This was their little ritual — her way of taking care of him even when the world tried to tear him down. After university or work, she’d always massage his shoulders and pet him to sleep, no matter how old he got.

Her baby. Always.

Riki pulled away gently, reaching into the small gift bag. He removed a delicate silver chain nestled in its box, the metal glinting under the kitchen light. Without a word, he undid the clasp and moved behind his mother, lifting her hair carefully before fastening it around her neck.

She stilled, hands halting mid-motion over the sink.

“You keep selling your jewelry,” he murmured, setting the box and bag aside on the counter. “Even when I tell you not to. I can handle the expenses, Kaachan. Just let me spoil you for once... This is the least I can do after ruining your life.”

At that, she turned around slowly, a soft frown etched into her forehead. Then, with a quiet sigh, she gave him a light slap on the cheek.

“I told you not to say things like that,” she scolded gently. “It’s not your fault. Don’t blame yourself.”

She pulled him into a hug, pressing her head against his chest.

“But it is,” he whispered. “You know it, Kaachan... I’m a monster. It’s because of me he chased you away.”

She pulled back just enough to cup his face in her small hands, her eyes shimmering but steady.

"Riki...my precious boy", she said softly, "You're not a monster".

He didn't look at her, his jaw clenched, gaze fixed on a tiny crack in the tiled floor.

"You were a child", she said more firmly, shaking her head. " An innocent child who didn't ask to be born into a storm. If anyone was a monster, it wasn't you".

Her thumbs brushed gently under his eyes.

"You saved me, Ki. You have me strength when I had none. You gave me a reason to leave that man and fight for a better life. For us. So don't you ever - ever - let guilt take that away from you".

"But I.... I kill...."

"Shh". She shushed him by, putting a finger to his lips, shaking her head.

His eyes began to sting, his breath shallow.

"You didn't ruin my life, Ki", she whispered, pressing her forehead to his on her tippy toes. "You became it. You are the best thing that's ever happened to me".

A small sob escaped his lips, quiet and stubborn, and she wrapped her arms around him again - tight this time - like she was holding the whole world together.

Chapter Text

There it was again — that slow, creeping burn beneath his skin.

It started in his chest this time, like something thick and hot had lodged itself behind his ribs, pressing outward with every breath. His jaw clenched before he even realized, teeth grinding in a slow rhythm as his fingers curled into fists at his sides.

Annoyance bubbled just beneath the surface — quiet, persistent, like steam hissing through cracks in a kettle. His pulse ticked faster, the corner of his eye twitching every time someone said something too loud, moved too fast, looked at him for too long.

He could feel it coming. That shift.

The flicker of something ugly — something sharp — stirring in the pit of his stomach.

He hated this part. The not-quite-anger. The not-quite-numbness. Just a slow-building pressure, like his body was too tight for his own skin and at any second, he might snap.

He shut his eyes, trying to take a breath — but even that felt like too much.

It was annoying the fuck out of him.

The orientation hall was too loud. Too crowded. Too chaotic.

Someone hit the mic against their palm. Once. Twice. A sharp, piercing pop echoed through the speakers, and all he could hear was the high-pitched ringing that followed. Like nails dragging down the inside of his skull.

It was annoying.

Freshers spoke all at once, overlapping voices climbing over each other, words blurring together into a wall of meaningless sound. Questions. Laughter. Shouting.

Annoying.

Everything felt like white noise now — sharp, messy, endless — and it was driving him over the edge. Suddenly he seemed to blackout. Everything went dark in his mind.

And then - bang.

The door slammed open so hard it bounced off the wall, and fuck, that was annoying as fuck.

Instant silence. The mic screeched once, then died. The buzz of overlapping chatter cut off. Even the air seemed to still.

He opened his eyes slowly, lids heavy with exhaustion and restraint, head tilting toward the door like it was the final straw.

And there, hunch over like he'd just run from hell itself, stood a boy. Panting hard. Gasping like the hallway had been a battlefield. It was annoying. So annoying.

His vision blurred at first, heat still crawling under his skin, but the figure sharpened with every second. Baggy grey jeans - a lighter shade, almost washed out. A white tank top tucked in messily. A green and yellow vintage shirt thrown over it, hanging open like he hadn't even bothered to try. Black hair flopped over his forehead, sticking slightly from sweat, framing a face that was - Duck-like.

With a mole under his eyes. Another on his cheekbone. One near his jaw.

Details he shouldn't be noticing. Details his eyes keeps trailing over - which made it all the more infuriating.

Annoying as fuck. His jaw ticked.

"Who are you?" He asked, voice slicing through the quiet before any of the third years could get a word in.

His tone was rough, scratchy like gravel - steeped in heat and edged in irritation. Like the question itself was a warning. And it was.

"I'm so sorry I'm late. I'm Nishimura Riki - I missed the bus and, yeah....here I am".

Riki's voice rushed out, light and breathless. His eyes darted around the huge orientation hall, trying to take it all in - the sheer number of faces, the cold stares, the suffocating silence. All of them staring at him. Judging him. And judging by the expression on the guy standing up front....he'd just made it worse.

"Out".

Just one word. Said slow. Low. Dangerous.

The kind of word that wasn't shouted, but felt louder than a scream.

Riki's head snapped toward him, brows furrowing.

That was rude.

"Well, I..."

"I said out!" The guy barked, voice sharp enough to cut glass. "You're late to a compulsory orientation. That already says everything I need to know about how serious you are. So get out. The door is right there".

His words echoed across the hall like a gavel slammed down in a courtroom. The silence afterward was so tight, you could hear a pin drop - or more accurately, his breath. Heavy. Shaky. His fists clenched at his sides like he was holding himself together by threads.

"And if I hear so much as a cough in this hall", he added, turning to the sea of wide-eyed freshmen, "you'll be the next to leave".

He didn't need to raise his voice again. His eyes did enough damage. Cold. Bored. Unimpressed.

Meet Sim Jaeyun.

Jake, for short.

Third year student. Computer engineering major. Nerd of the year. Every year.

The kind of nerd who didn't wear suspenders or hide behind books - he wore hot rectangular glasses,rolled up sleeves, that left just enough of his snake tattoo peeking, to have the entire student body internally combust.

Jake was one of the main heads of the student board. Respected. Feared. Admired.

People fought for his approval like it was oxygen. One compliment from Jake was enough to boost a résumé and break a heart.

And right now?

He wanted Riki gone.

--------

Riki slammed the door shut behind him. The sound echoed down the empty hallway, sharp and final. He leaned back against it, chest heaving, fists trembling at his sides. His bag slipped off his shoulder and hit the floor with a dull thud.

His whole body shook. From rage. From humiliation. From the pulsing fire racing through his veins.

His breath came in hard bursts, fogging the air. Veins bulged along his arms and temple, dark and unnaturally prominent—like something monstrous stirred beneath his skin. His eyes squeezed shut, nose flaring, jaw clenched so tight it ached.

"Stupid."

"Asshole."

"Bastard."

Each word fell like a curse, spat through gritted teeth.

He spun and drove his fist into the opposite wall. The impact echoed, drywall crumbling slightly beneath the force. A dent. Just short of destruction.

"Calm down," he told himself. His voice was low. Guttural. Not his own. Not completely.

He opened his eyes—and they were red. Just for a flash. A brief, terrifying flicker before shifting back to brown. The veins snaked away, skin smoothing out like nothing had happened.

Like it hadn’t nearly gotten out.

He exhaled shakily and dropped onto a bench nearby, dragging a hand down his face.

He almost lost it. Again.

Because of that guy. Whatever the hell his name was.

Why is everyone so fucking rude in this university?

••••

Sunoo munched slowly on his food, eyes fixed on the cafeteria entrance like a hawk. The space buzzed with life, clattering trays, bursts of laughter, the low hum of overlapping conversations.

SungHoon, seated a chair away, had his red headphones on, music likely blasting. Oblivious to the goo-goo eyes thrown his way - from both boys and girls. Not that Sunoo blamed them. SungHoon made "effortless" look expensive: black hoodie, baggy black jeans, clean white converse - all designer. His legs were spread lazily as he sipped his cappuccino, the picture of calm confidence.

But definitely not Sunoo's type.

His eyes were set on one Nishimura Riki.

Beside him, Yeonjun scrolled through his phone, his ridiculously oversized glasses perched low on his nose, catching the overhead lights every time he moved.

Sunoo chewed slowly now, gaze still locked on the doors. He glanced at his wristwatch.

1:30 PM.

So why isn't he here yet?

By now, Sunoo had Riki's cafeteria schedule down to a science. With Yeonjun's help, he'd pieces together the boy's routine with impressive precision.

• Basketball practice: Mondays and Thursdays.

• Dance club : Wednesdays.

• Library time : Fridays - exactly thirty minutes.

• And the cafeteria? Always at 1:15 PM sharp.

Ten minutes in line - that's 1:25.

Two minutes finding a seat - 1:27.

Then he eats until 1:50.

It's 1:30 now. So where the hell is he?

Just as Sunoo was about to shove his barely-touched food aside - because honestly, it tasted like cardboard - and storm off to find Riki ( he hadn't spent three nights practicing those mirror lines for nothing), the cafeteria door swung open.

And in walked Riki.

Flawless, as always. A green and yellow vintage button-up carelessly layered over a black tank top. Collar sharp. Skin golden. Hair slightly tousled. Chef's. Freaking. Kiss.

Could a person be any more unfairly handsome?

Sunoo let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, tension melting from his shoulders. The sound pulled Yeonjun's attention.

"You okay?" Yeonjun asked, eyes flicking up from his phone.

"Why wouldn't I be?" Sunoo replied smoothly, eyes glued to Riki as he moved through the lunch line like a prince among peasants.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Yeonjun follow his gaze...and then saw the blush blooming pink across Yeonjun's cheeks.

Sunoo's head turned.

His smile was sweet. His tone? Even sweeter.

"Yeonjun", he said softly. "You know you're my friend, right?"

Yeonjun blinked, wary. "Yeah...?"

Sunoo nodded, lashes fluttering. "Then I need you to know your place". A beat. "I still remember seeing you blush when Riki looked out way at the library last week". Another beat. "You know I like Riki".

Yeonjun swallowed hard and nodded rapidly. "I do. I will. I..I got it".

There was no way he was crossing Sunoo over a boy he doesn't like. No way.

Sunoo beamed, satisfied.

Then, without warning, he stood up. Tray rattling. Chair screeching loud enough to draw a few glances. Even SungHoon looked up, headphones slipping off one ear.

And with all the confidence in the world, Sunoo placed his hands on his hips and shouted across the cafeteria:

"Nishimura!"

Sunoo felt the embarrassment hit him like a truck.

Every pair of eyes in the cafeteria was suddenly on him. His cheeks flushed a fierce red that traveled all the way down to his neck, heat crawling under his skin like a thousand tiny sparks.

He fidgeted, fingers tugging at the hem of his fluffy cardigan, the once cozy fabric now offering zero comfort. In a desperate attempt to ground himself, he adjusted his glasses, pushing them higher on his nose before stealing a glance at the one person who mattered. Riki.

And of course, the boy was already staring at him - a brow raised, expression unreadable.

Sunoo felt like throwing himself out the nearest window.

He mouthed, "come", voice caught in his throat. Not loud. Barely a whisper. Then, with trembling fingers, he tucked his hair behind his ear, trying not to melt into a puddle of nerves.

Did I make a mistake?

He just wanted to talk to Riki. Really talk. Not those short hallway greetings. Not the shy waves. A real conversation. Was that too much to ask?

But Riki always walked around like confidence lived in his bloodstream - like nothing ever fazed him. And next to that? Sunoo felt like an anxious little dot.

And then, to his heart horror....Riki smiled. That damn smile, that always made his heart skyrocket. And then, he nodded.

Sunoo's breath caught as Riki started walking toward him, tray balanced in one hand like it was no big deal.

He's coming. Oh my God, he's actually coming.

Meanwhile, SungHoon's frown deepened. His lips pressed into a flat , unimpressed line as he watched the scene unfold. So this was the infamous Riki? The one Sunoo had been mooning over for weeks?

He was handsome, SungHoon admitted. Stupidly handsome. But that didn't mean much to him. He'd met plenty of good-looking people, and none of them had ever made him care.

Rolling his eyes, he tugged his headphones back over his ears and turned away, muttering under his breath, "Tch. Not my type".

"Sunoo-sii".

Riki's voice was low, smooth like velvet and rich like expresso. And Sunoo's heart? It's absolutely stuttered.

"Please sit," Sunoo smiled, pulling out a chair for Riki like a gentleman in a period drama. He waited until Riki settled in - right between him and SungHoon - before sliding into his own seat.

SungHoon didn't even glance up. His headphones were still on, lips pressed tight. Classic SungHoon - acting like the new guy didn't exist.

"This is Yeonjun", Sunoo said, gesturing toward his friend with a look when he noticed the barely there blush dusting Yeonjun's cheeks.

Yeonjun coughed into his fist and gave a polite wave, avoiding direct eye contact.

"And my best friend, SungHoon", Sunoo continued, motioning toward the male.

SungHoon rolled his eyes and didn't move a muscle.

Sunoo leaned in slightly and whispered, "Don't mind him".

Riki smiled anyway - but only at Yeonjun. "Nice to meet you". He didn't bother acknowledging SungHoon.

The table went quiet for a moment, filled only by the background cafeteria noise and the sound of Riki unwrapping his sandwich. He took a bite, chewing slowly, unaware — or uncaring — of how Sunoo’s eyes kept flicking over to him.

Even sitting, Riki looked effortlessly cool. His legs spread comfortably, long limbs framed by the loose slits in his baggy jeans that showed flashes of tanned skin. Sunoo had to force his eyes back up, cheeks heating.

Then — he remembered his lines.

“So, uhm…” Sunoo started, heart racing. “We’ve been waving at each other in the hallway for a while now and I just— I thought maybe it was time to take it to the next level.”

He paused. Swallowed.

“So… can we be friends?”

He didn’t stutter. Thank God.

Riki turned to him fully then, something fond lighting his gaze. “Sure, I’d love to.”

Sunoo blinked. Just like that?

“What department are you in?” Riki asked, casually taking another bite of his sandwich. “I’m in the Environmental Design and Architecture department.”

Sunoo’s heart soared. Riki really said yes.

It matches him, SungHoon thought to himself, pretending to scroll through his playlist, thumb hovering over the screen like he was about to change the song.

Music wasn’t even playing anymore.

He didn’t need to be a genius to admit it — the guy was handsome. Stupidly so.

And Sunoo? Sunoo was lucky to like someone like that.

If SungHoon was really being honest with himself — the kind of brutal, quiet honesty he rarely allowed — he hadn’t taken anyone to bed who looked like this Nishimura Riki.

Not even close.

Not that he would.

He wasn’t that kind of friend.

...Still.

He wouldn’t mind being under him. Once. Maybe twice. No more.

But he wasn’t going to betray Sunoo.

“I’m in the Performing Arts department,” Sunoo chimed brightly, turning back to Riki with a smile too wide to be casual. “Which reminds me—since we’re friends now,” he said, voice laced with excitement, “my department’s doing a play this Friday, and I’m going to be in it! Will you come?”

Sunoo's eyes sparkled. Full-on puppy mode.

As if remembering something critical, he quickly rummaged through his bag, digging past notebooks and pens before triumphantly pulling out a small ticket — purple and white, slightly bent at the edges.

He held it out to Riki like a sacred offering.

“It’s at 12 PM. In the main auditorium,” he added, voice softer now. Like he’d rehearsed the line in his head a dozen times.

Riki blinked at the ticket. Then smiled. That easy, slow kind of smile that made Sunoo forget what air was.

“I’ll be there,” he said, reaching to take the ticket from Sunoo’s hand, their fingers brushing.

SungHoon froze.

Excuse him? Was Sunoo seriously inviting a total stranger to his play?

He hadn’t even been invited yet.

He, who’s been Sunoo’s best friend since their awkward braces-and-backpacks phase. He, who held Sunoo’s hair back when he cried over his last failed crush. He, who didn’t even like plays but still showed up every single time.

But sure. Invite pretty boy Riki. With his flawless skin and baggy jeans and goddamn collarbones.

SungHoon turned the volume up on his nonexistent music.

Not that the guy was that handsome. Pfft. Please.Totally average. He wasn’t bothered. Not even a little. He definitely didn’t just die inside.

Riki took the last bite of his sandwich, dusting his hands off casually before standing.

Sunoo looked up, cheeks still tinged with pink, fingers twitching against the edge of his seat like he didn’t want the moment to end.

Riki slung his bag over one shoulder and turned to him with a smile — that kind of slow, effortless curve of lips that made Sunoo’s heart forget how to beat properly.

“I’ll catch you later, Sunoo-sii,” he said, voice low and kind.

And just like that, he walked away.

Sunoo slumped in his chair dramatically, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning too hard. That smile. That smile. He was dead. No—worse. He was deceased, buried, and dancing in his grave.

He watched until Riki disappeared through the cafeteria doors, and then, with absolutely no warning—

Whack.

SungHoon hissed, jerking back as Sunoo kicked him hard under the table.

“What the—!?”

“That’s for ignoring my crush,” Sunoo muttered sweetly, straightening his cardigan like nothing happened.

SungHoon groaned, rubbing his shin. “You’re insane.”

Sunoo didn’t deny it. He just smiled to himself, heart still fluttering.

••••

The pen-shaped vape sat snug between his fingers — matte black, with a neon coil wrapping around it like it had a pulse of its own. He brought it to his lips, took a long drag, slow and deliberate, and exhaled.

Smoke curled around his jawline, then drifted upward — over his cheekbones, over his lashes — vanishing into the night above the penthouse balcony.

Below, the city stretched like a painting. Lights blinked like stars under his feet. Distant. Insignificant. Just like everyone else.

His robe — sheer silk, loose and untied — fluttered lazily in the breeze. It hugged his frame in places, slid off in others. Nothing hidden. His bare chest shimmered gold under the dim lights, lean muscles on display. His Calvin Klein briefs sat low, clinging to his hips, framing his v-line like it was carved. A glimpse of red ink peeked from his hipbone — a tattoo only the lucky had ever seen. 

Red hair glowed like fire, a sharp streak in the cool shadows. His eyes, darker than dusk, stared at the horizon. But he wasn’t seeing the skyline.

He was seeing him.

That night. That touch. That voice. That damn dragon tattoo on a back that moved like sin.

He closed his eyes.

The mirror ceiling had reflected everything. The drag of lips. The burn of fingernails. The red eyes locking onto his through the glass, pinning him in place as if he belonged there — beneath him.

And he had. Every part of him had belonged to him that night.

His tongue, his hands, the way he moved — slow, hard, cruelly perfect. It wasn’t just sex. It was a ruin. A brand burned into memory.

He sees him every time he closes his eyes.

And the worst part? He doesn’t want to forget. He wants more.

More of that voice against his neck. More of those hands on his hips. More of that gaze that made him feel like prey.

But he doesn't even have a name.

He'd woken up alone. Bruised in the best ways. Ache between his thighs and a scent on his sheets that refused to fade. He searched. He asked around. Nothing.

Not even a name.

And now? Now he's obsessed.

He brings the vape to his lips again. Smokes like it's the only way to stay sane.

Because he’s the king. He can buy anything. But this? This, he’d pay anything to have again. He’s going to get him. Just like he gets everything else.

Because once he sets his eyes on something — once desire coils deep in his gut — it becomes his. It has to be.

He set the pen-shaped vape down on the wide glass balcony railing, its neon coil still glowing faintly in the dark. Then he reached for his phone — the newest Samsung model, sleek and silver. A swipe brought the screen to life.

And there he was.

Frozen in time. Laid out in sleep. Unaware.

The photo stared back at him — dazedly taken after that mind-numbing night, when he’d been too wrecked to think, yet too entranced to not capture it.

The boy lay tangled in sheets, bare under a thin blanket that barely hid anything. His skin was slick with sweat, glowing soft gold under the neon lights of the room. A delicate half-moon silver chain sat against his collarbone, catching the light like a beacon. His black hair was a mess — wild and damp — with faint scratch marks trailing down his chest, evidence of how intense the night had been.

He remembered brushing that hair out of his face. He remembered kissing the mole under his eye. He remembered whispering something he doesn’t even dare repeat.

His fingers ghosted over the screen now — tracing the curve of the boy’s jaw, brushing down to the soft line of his mouth, the cluster of beauty marks, the slope of his nose.

“You,” he whispered, voice low, almost reverent.

Then, like a vow, “I’ll find you. Just give me one more night.”

It had been two months.

Two months of burning memory. Of waking up with clenched fists and aching want. Of wet dreams and ghost touches. Of nothing satisfying him anymore. He’s tired of waiting. Tired of not knowing. Because this isn’t just lust anymore.

This is hunger. Ownership. Obsession.

And soon?

He’ll have him again. Whatever it takes.

The soft click of his bedroom door opening pulled him back to reality.

Footsteps padded in — measured, obedient. They stopped just behind the double doors of the balcony.

“Master,” came the servant’s voice, soft and respectful, head bowed. “It’s time to prepare you for the night.”

He didn’t respond immediately. Just stared at the cityscape for a moment longer — then set the phone down gently on the railing, exhaling smoke through parted lips. Still lost in the image burned into his brain.

Then he turned.

Sharp eyes, sharper jaw. His expression carved from stone, regal and cold. Arrogance radiated from him in waves.

Two maids immediately fell into step behind him as he re-entered the room. The first servant stepped onto the balcony to collect the phone, the vape, and a sleek laptop resting on the swing seat.

His robe was peeled off by practiced hands — arms outstretched like a king waiting to be robed in gold. But there was nothing underneath. Only skin and Calvin Klein, the briefs hugging low over his hips, the flash of that red ink curling at his hipbone like a secret sin.

His designer slides were replaced with soft indoor slippers.

He didn’t blink.

He didn’t speak.

Not until his phone rang.

The servant was already beside him, offering the device like an offering to a god.

He took it, pressed it to his ear. “Speak.”

“I finally found information about the guy you’ve been searching for,” the voice on the line said.

His heart stopped.

One second.Then two.Then a breath — sharp, silent, through his nose.

“He attends the same university as you. Architecture department. A fresher. Just got in a few months ago.”

The words settled like a fire in his gut.

The same university.

All this time.

And I haven’t seen him?

A crack of frustration split his composure for a second.

“What’s his name?” he demanded, voice low, greedy.

A pause.

Then the answer.

“Nishimura Riki.”

His fingers clenched around the phone.

A name. Finally — a name for the boy who ruined him. A name for the lips he still dreamed of. A name for the dragon-eyed demon who shattered his standards and left him gasping.

Nishimura Riki.

He whispered it once.Then again.Then smiled.

Possessive. Dangerous. Certain.

“Good,” he said.

Then he ended the call.

Finally. He's going to have what he craves for. He's going to have Nishimura Riki all to himself.