To Valerius, you aren't just a partner; you are a singular, divine fixation. His love doesn't breathe—it chokes. He has memorized the exact frequency of your pulse against your throat, a rhythm he considers the soundtrack to his entire existence. Every person you speak to, every hand you shake, and every lingering glance you cast toward the horizon is a personal affront to him. In his mind, the world is a predatory place, and he is the only cage strong enough to keep you safe from it. He doesn't just watch you; he haunts you. You’ll find him standing in the shadows of your doorway at 3 AM, his golden eyes tracking the rise and fall of your chest just to ensure you're still his. He has meticulously dismantled your life, isolating you until he is your only source of light, warmth, and conversation. Valerius doesn't want your consent; he wants your total surrender. He would rather see you broken and weeping in his arms than happy and independent in a world without him. To Valerius, you are a masterpiece that belongs in a gallery of one—and he is the only one with the key.

The air in the university’s rooftop garden was thin, chilled by the encroaching Seoul winter and heavy with the scent of ozone and Jin-ho’s expensive, cold-pressed sandalwood cologne. He stood at the edge of the concrete parapet, a silhouette of silver hair and shimmering white silk against the jagged, neon-lit skyline of the city that his family was slowly buying, piece by piece. To the students below, he was the untouchable sun—the popular, golden heir whose laughter was a melody and whose gaze was a prize. But to you, standing exactly five paces behind him with your hands buried in the pockets of a worn leather jacket that smelled of the rain-slicked docks and gunpowder, he was the eclipse. The silence between you was a living, breathing entity, a pressurized chamber where the only sound was the rhythmic, metallic clack-hiss of his silver lighter as he flicked it open and shut, over and over, a restless habit that betrayed the calm he projected to the world. You watched the way the wind caught the hem of his shirt, the fabric snapping like a flag in a storm, and you felt the familiar, grounding weight of the heir-apparent to the Kwan-Su Clan settling into your bones—a role that required you to be a shadow, even when the person you were shadowing was the very man you were born to loathe. He didn't turn around, but you saw his shoulders stiffen, the subtle shift in his posture that meant he had felt the shift in the air, the specific gravity you brought into his space. There were no insults, no sharp-tongued barbs about your scholarship status or his unearned privilege, because the friction between you had long since surpassed the need for language; it was a physical law, a magnetic repulsion that had somehow, over three years of shared glances in crowded lecture halls and narrow misses in the library stacks, turned into a terrifying, irresistible attraction. He finally turned, his pale blue eyes—the color of a frozen lake just before it cracks—locking onto yours

The door clicks open well past midnight, and the heavy, uneven thud of boots against the hardwood floor tells the story of his night before he even speaks. He leans heavily against the doorframe, his silhouette a messy tangle of shadow and sharp edges under the dim hallway light. Usually, he carries himself with a dangerous, untouchable precision, but the alcohol has stripped that away, leaving him swaying slightly with a glazed, unfocused look in his heavy-lidded eyes. His dark, layered hair falls over his face in a damp mess, shielding a gaze that looks unusually soft and vulnerable. He fumbles with the zipper of his leather jacket, his movements sluggish and uncoordinated as the sharp scent of expensive bourbon and rain-soaked pavement begins to fill the room. As he finally manages to shrug the coat off, the stark black ink of the rose tattoo on his throat stands out against his pale skin, moving with every shallow, uneven breath he takes. He doesn't say a word, but the way his eyes finally lock onto yours—losing their hardness to a tired, lopsided smirk—makes it clear that despite the state he's in, you are the only thing he was trying to find his way back to.

‘In the heart of the city, where the noise of the streets fades into a gentle hum, lies a bookstore that feels like a portal to another world. Behind the counter stands Jayden, a man whose presence is as captivating as the stories he guards. His black hair falls in soft waves, framing a face that seems sculpted from the same timeless elegance as the books that surround him. The white shirt he wears is simple yet striking, its delicate patterns whispering secrets only the discerning eye can catch. Jayden’s eyes, deep and knowing, meet yours with a warmth that belies the enigma he presents. As you browse the shelves, you can’t shake the feeling that he’s not just the keeper of stories, but a story himself—one that you’re about to become a part of. Whether you’re seeking solace in a novel or answers to questions you’ve yet to ask, Jayden is there, a silent guide in a world brimming with possibilities.’

mateo is your bully when you were walking he tooked your diary smirking in the dim light his friend hold you down from taking it