~Park Taesan~
Hwang Min-jun’s face lit up the night. Above the neon-laced streets of Seoul, his image loomed—towering, magnetic, dangerous. On the digital billboard above the Grand Odeon Theater, he held a pistol with one hand and a beautiful woman with the other. Her lips were parted in awe, her body molded to his as if the world behind them had already exploded. In the backdrop: fire and smoke, the orange flare of cinema fantasy.
“Hwang Min-jun, the new darling of the big screen,” the press would say. “Adored by millions. Untouchable in his rise.”
Park Taesan on the other hand blended into the crowd—low-shouldered, quiet, unbothered—among the rush of filmgoers spilling from the glass doors of the theater. Seoul pulsed around him, all chatter and electric light. He kept his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, his face tilted just enough to avoid recognition—not that he needed to worry. No one looked at him twice.
An okay actor at best, he thought, stepping aside as a couple giggled past him. I don’t get the hype.
Behind him, two women exited arm in arm, their voices a giddy whisper that rose above the din.
“He’s so handsome it’s unfair!”
“I know, right? Even when he was just a backup dancer, I couldn’t take my eyes off him.”
“No wonder they call him the nation’s boyfriend!”
Taesan cast a look over his shoulder—just a flick of his eyes. His brow ticked up. He turned away with a faint shake of his head. Well, I guess that makes sense, he mused. Who needs talent when you’re hot?
His phone vibrated. A sharp, bright ding that cut through the noise of the city. He pulled it from his pocket, gaze dropping to the glowing screen.
PRXT Security: Have you thought over the bodyguard contract for Hwang Min-jun? I know celebrities aren’t your thing, but his manager is offering big money. They specifically want someone with your background.
Taesan stood still, the message burning at him through LED light. The world moved on without him—heels clicking, conversations fluttering, streetlights blinking into the puddles at his feet.
Babysitting a heartthrob, huh?
Taesan: Fine.
He tucked the phone away. His footsteps resumed, slow and steady, carried by something close to reluctant curiosity.
How hard can it really be?
The lights above him glowed soft and golden, cast to mimic the warmth of a café at dusk. Everything on set was curated—romance bottled and arranged like a perfume ad. Hwang Min-jun stood beneath it, hands lightly clasping the woman’s. Just enough. Not too much.
Her eyes sparkled with performance. She looked at him as though they shared something real.
“If the world turns its back on me,” Min-jun whispered, his voice low, tender, the cadence memorized, but delivered like truth. “I’ll always choose you.”
She blushed. Her grip tightened. “And I’ll never stop believing in us.”
Their gazes locked—affection held between. Fragile. Poised. Practiced. Believable. Then— “Cut!”
The illusion ruptured. The café dissolved under fluorescent glares. The warm dusk faded into wires and scaffolding, plastic vines unspooling across the linoleum.
Min-jun exhaled through his nose as the spell collapsed.
She smiled at him, still half-drenched in the character’s echo. “You were incredible in that scene. I almost believed I was really in love with you.”
Min-jun returned a soft chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck with sheepish polish. “That means I did my job.”
The director swept in, all enthusiasm and forward momentum. “Perfect, Min-jun! You brought so much truth to it!”
He nodded. Smile light. Voice humble. “Just doing my best, Director.”
It was all muscle memory now.
The dressing room door clicked shut behind him. Silence pressed in. A golden plaque outside bore his name in raised, elegant lettering—Hwang Min-jun. A name that no longer felt like it belonged to just one person.
Inside, the quiet was padded, sterile. A resting space for someone always performing. He dropped into the black leather couch, phone in hand, thumb flicking through headlines.
“Hwang Min-jun Shines in Upcoming Romance Film!” “Rumors Swirl: Co-Star or Model Friend?” “Pirvate but Perfect: The Nation’s Boyfriend Stays Silent on Love Life.”
His jaw flexed. They love the idea of me. But not me. Smile too wide, you’re fake. Too small, you’re cold. Stay silent? You’re arrogant. Show yourself? You’re baiting them. And don’t ever slip up. One real moment and they’ll eat you alive.
A knock broke the spiral.
“Come in.”
His manager stepped in, neat as always. Black folder in hand, shoes too shiny, expression somewhere between concern and calculation. He took a seat opposite Min-jun and opened the folder. “The restraining order went through,” he said, flipping a page. “But there are still… issues.”
Min-jun’s gaze didn’t move. But something behind his eyes cooled, sharpened.
A memory flickered—unbidden, scratchy at the edges. A woman. Her mascara smudged. Her nails curled around his collar. Her voice rising. Fear prickling under his skin like needles. And he, arms half-raised, not knowing if he should push her off or let her cling until she tore his shirt or her nails split skin.
He blinked. The image gone.
The manager slid a page across the table. “They want a full-time security detail. Someone vetted.”
Min-jun glanced down.
A corporate logo—PRXT. A photo attached to the profile: the bodyguard. Clean lines. Imposing shoulders. Sharp-eyed. Military background, former special ops. The kind of man who didn’t flinch when things got messy.
They’re sending me a shadow.
“Twenty-four-hour watch,” the manager added. “Discreet, of course. You’ll barely notice him.”
Min-jun leaned back. For a moment, he said nothing. Then that perfect smile unfolded on his lips like a well-rehearsed encore. He slid the paper back. “As long as he doesn’t get in the way of my downtime,” he said lightly. “An actor needs space to recharge. You know—creative juices and all.”
But in the space behind his smile, something twisted.
Downtime? What is that anymore? You can’t date. Can’t drink in public. Can’t be seen with someone twice unless you want marriage rumors trending by morning. God forbid they knew the truth. That the man they plaster across calendars and phone cases—he doesn’t even get off to the women they pair him with on screen. If they knew what he really wanted, they’d crucify him.
He stretched, feigning ease, as the manager collected the folder again. His fingers lingered briefly on the bodyguard’s photo.
Park Taesan.
***
The sun hit the Starlit Agency building like it had a grudge—glinting off glass and steel until the world below seemed smaller, blurred in the brightness. From Min-jun’s car window, the tower looked less like a workplace and more like a monument. Cold. Polished. Unapologetically vain. Just like the brand it upheld.
He stepped through the lobby doors as they parted like theater curtains, welcoming him back into the role.
Inside were rows of smiling faces. His own, more than once. Magazine covers framed in black steel. Movie titles stamped in gold foil. The stale scent of money and ambition clung to the filtered air. Every surface gleamed.
His manager trailed a step behind, murmuring updates about calendar changes and filming dates. Min-jun barely listened. He didn’t need a briefing to know what today was.
Min-jun rubbed the corner of one eye and yawned. “I’m just saying,” he muttered, tone flat with fatigue, “if you already hired the guy, what’s the point of the meeting?”
His manager gave that patient corporate smile. “Logistics. We’re going over the expectations—for both of you.”
Min-jun didn’t respond. He caught movement in his peripheral vision—someone rising from the black leather bench in the waiting area.
Their eyes met, the handshake brief. Unsmiling. All control and no warmth.
They moved to a meeting room—all frosted glass, brushed steel, and the smell of expensive nothing. Min-jun dropped into a chair with the languid ease of someone who’d done this too many times before. He crossed one leg over the other and leaned back slightly, studying Taesan from beneath his lashes.
The bodyguard didn’t sit. Just stood there, arms folded, a monolith carved from some discipline. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Stoic. Silent.
Then, he spoke. “I’m not your average security detail. I’m one person—present for every activity. I blend in. Fewer eyes, fewer patterns.”
Min-jun’s gaze flicked to his manager.
The folder was opened, pages rustled like dead leaves.
“Military background,” his manager said. “More versatile than your old team. And a lot more discreet.”
Taesan added, crisp and unapologetic, “I’ll need access to your schedule, your phone contacts, keys to your home, and access to all your security feeds. Interior and exterior.”
My home?
Min-jun raised a brow, unease creeping into his chest. Not fear. Not exactly.
Taesan, of course, noticed. Of course, he read the flicker of hesitation like a fingerprint. “You do know what ‘twenty-four-hour’ means, right?” His tone didn’t mock. It didn’t need to. “I’ll be living with you.”
Min-jun’s spine straightened. His fingers twitched faintly against the armrest.
His manager chimed in, too quickly. “Think of him as a live-in guard dog.”
Min-jun didn’t smile. His mind was no longer in the room. It was in that hallway again—dimly lit. Her silhouette flickering like static at the edge of vision. That blade catching light. Her voice like cracked glass. And the moment he realized that a fan’s love could curdle into obsession. That no amount of charm could save you if they decided they were owed something from you.
Min-jun blinked the memory away and exhaled. “I don’t need someone in my house.” His voice was quiet, controlled. “I need someone with me in public. That’s it.” But the words rang hollow even to himself. He glanced at Taesan. “What if I have guests over?” he asked, careful, deliberate. “Do I get privacy?”
Taesan’s expression didn’t shift. “I’ll screen all your guests.”
“And what about… the other kind of guest?” he said, voice dipping lower, almost a purr. “You know. The fun kind.”
The manager sighed audibly. “For your reputation,” he said dryly, “let’s hope you’re not bringing those kinds of guests home.”
Min-jun’s face didn’t move, but the tension was back in his jaw. He didn’t need to respond. They both knew the truth.
No scandals. No lovers. No rumors, except the ones made up by fans and whispered in YouTube comment sections. In interviews, he was the perfect daydream—modest, hardworking, a little shy. A man who saved his kisses for the camera. A man who’d never even held someone’s hand off-script. A twenty-seven year old virgin apparently.
Min-jun leaned back again, slowly, one hand resting across his stomach like he was folding himself as he adjusted his jacket.
His manager’s voice softened. “This is for your safety.”
It was another layer of glass around him. Another locked door. Another person who got to watch him breathe.
Min-jun turned his face slightly, casting Taesan in his peripheral vision. He licked the inside of his cheek and offered a lazy half-smile. “Welcome to the cage, I guess.”
Taesan didn’t react.
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