Lee Haneul stood on the red carpet, camera flashes exploding around him like fireworks on the Fourth of July. His teeth were perfect, lips curling into that award-winning, clean-cut grin the fans adored. He waved, posed, turned slightly to the left—like the media coach trained him—and laughed when the reporter to his right made a joke he didn’t even hear.

His stomach clenched, a hollow ache rising beneath his ribs. His chest tightened, breath was shallow. His jaw throbbed from holding the smile too long.
They call this fame, he thought, blinking past the glare. But it feels more like being dissected alive.

Behind him, black SUVs lined the curb. Fans screamed his name behind the barricades. He gave them a small wave—gentle, boyfriend-like, soft enough to keep him trending. His stylist’s voice echoed in his mind: “You’re their fantasy. Be dreamy, not distant.”

His eyes flicked to a still figure in the chaos—a man in a sleek black suit, hands buried deep in pockets. Watching. Unblinking.

Minjae.

The new manager the agency had dumped on him just three months ago. Polished. Professional. Ice in human form. Haneul hadn’t trusted him from the moment they met—but that hadn’t stopped the man from peeling him open, layer by layer, like he already owned every piece of him.

Haneul’s smile faltered for half a second.
Then he fixed it, turned, and walked off the carpet like nothing was wrong.

Backstage was quiet. Cold. Too quiet.
His footsteps echoed down the dim hallway. He reached for the bottle of water in his pocket and fumbled—his hands were shaking. He hadn’t eaten all day, hadn’t slept more than two hours the night before. His body was running on caffeine, pressure, and fear.

He passed a mirror and flinched.
He hated his face when he wasn’t smiling.

A hand grabbed his arm and yanked him sideways.
Haneul stumbled, slamming into the wall with a gasp. The water bottle clattered to the floor. Fingers pinned him by the shoulder. The scent of cologne—sharp, expensive, familiar—flooded his senses.

Minjae.

“Too much eye contact with the director,” Minjae said calmly. “It’s unprofessional.”

Haneul's breath hitched. “He asked a question.”

“You smiled too long. Tilted your head to the left. That’s your ‘come closer’ angle.”

Haneul swallowed. “Are you seriously monitoring my facial expressions now?”

Minjae leaned in. Their faces were close—too close. “I monitor everything. That’s my job.”

Haneul turned his face away, but Minjae’s fingers found his jaw and forced him back.

“Smile for me,” Minjae murmured.

Haneul’s lips parted, a soft gasp escaping before he could bite it back.
His manager’s gaze dropped to his mouth.

There was a flash—brief and brutal—of something unspoken between them. Tension. Hunger. Control.

“Don’t—” Haneul whispered.
Minjae’s hand dropped.

“I own the image,” he said. “Don’t forget that.”

He turned and walked away, shoes clicking against the tile.
Haneul slid down the wall once he was gone, knees weak.

Two Years Ago
The webcam light flicked on.
Sixteen-year-old Haneul stared into the lens, bare shoulders exposed. His hands trembled over the keyboard. Messages poured into the chat.
“So pretty.” “Show more.” “Smile for me, baby.”

He stared at the comments, heart pounding. The money was real. The fear was realer.
He forced a smile and hit Stream.

Now
He stared at his reflection in the mirror again. The backstage hallway lights were cold and fluorescent. His lips were red from biting. His neck had a faint mark—he didn’t even remember when that happened.

His phone buzzed.
MINJAE: “Come to the suite after the after-party. We need to talk.”

Haneul exhaled shakily.
In the distance, fans screamed his name again—his cue.
He stepped out from behind the curtain.
And smiled like his soul wasn’t rotting under every flashbulb.

The car ride to the after-party was silent.
Haneul sat in the backseat of a tinted black sedan, legs crossed, staring out the window like the city lights weren’t clawing at the glass.

His phone buzzed again. He didn’t need to look.
MINJAE: “You’re wearing the wrong tie.”
MINJAE: “Fix it before photos.”

He sighed and loosened the silk tie, fingers moving slowly. He didn’t know why he listened—maybe because Minjae made listening easier than refusing. Easier than losing everything.

The car stopped in front of the event hall. He stepped out, smile loaded, posture picture-perfect. Cameras snapped. He waved, winked, and charmed. The crowd responded like trained dogs.

It was easy. He’d been doing this longer than he’d been legal.

What wasn’t easy was pretending he didn’t feel Minjae watching him from across the room, calm as ever, sipping dark liquor in a shadowed corner like a villain out of a noir film.

Their eyes met.
Minjae lifted his glass in mock applause.
And smiled.

Three Years Ago – First Meeting
The room was in chaos. PR agents shouted over one another. His old manager paced like a headless chicken, sweating through his button-up.
Haneul sat in the corner, makeup smudged from crying. Someone had leaked his old cam-boy clips.
It was over. He was done.

Then the door opened.
A man walked in. Black suit. Cold eyes.

“Fire him,” the man said, pointing at Haneul’s manager.

Everyone turned.
“Excuse me?” the manager snapped.

“You heard me.” He looked at Haneul. “You need someone who can clean blood with bleach and smile while doing it.”

“And who the hell are you?”

The man walked closer, stopping just in front of Haneul.

“I’m Jung Minjae,” he said. “And I fix what’s broken.”

He crouched down, took Haneul’s chin gently in two fingers, and lifted his face.
“You’ve been used. Filmed. Humiliated.”
Haneul didn’t answer.

“You want power?” Minjae said. “Then stop crying and sign the contract.”

Back to Present

An hour later, Haneul was in a suite that wasn’t his, sitting on the edge of a velvet chaise, watching the city through the glass like he might throw himself through it just to feel something real.

Minjae walked in, unbuttoning his cuffs.

“I said midnight,” he murmured.

Haneul didn’t turn around. “The red carpet ran long.”

“Excuses,” Minjae said, pulling off his blazer with the kind of casual control that made Haneul’s stomach twist. “You’re a professional. Act like one.”

“I smiled for three hours straight.”

“You’re not paid to smile.”

Haneul turned, eyes flashing. “No? Then what am I paid for?”

Minjae stared at him.

Too long.

Too hard.

Then walked over, slow and smooth, until he was standing behind the chaise, close enough that Haneul could feel the heat of him.

“You know exactly what you’re paid for,” Minjae said.

His hand came down on Haneul’s shoulder. Not hard. Not soft.

Possessive.

Haneul’s breath caught. His body tensed. His eyes dropped.

“I’m tired,” he muttered.

“Then rest.”

Minjae’s hand slid down, tracing the line of Haneul’s collarbone beneath the thin fabric of his shirt.

“Minjae…”

“You don’t get to say no after all the yeses you've already given me.”

Haneul stood up so fast that the glass beside him toppled.

“Stop talking like you own me.”

“I don’t talk like I own you,” Minjae said. “I act like I do.”

Silence.

Long. Ugly. Loud in its truth.

Haneul grabbed his coat.

“This isn’t love,” he said quietly.

“I never said it was.”

He opened the door.

Minjae didn’t stop him.

Didn’t need to.

Because as Haneul stepped into the hallway, he caught his reflection in the gilded mirror outside the suite.

He didn’t recognize himself.

Not the bruised neck.

Not the trembling fingers.

Not the eyes that looked back with something too close to hunger.

The suite door clicked shut behind him, but the silence followed like a shadow.

Haneul walked down the hallway, one foot in front of the other, the plush hotel carpet swallowing his steps. He didn’t know where he was going. Just away. Away from Minjae. Away from the heat of his touch and the weight of that stare. Away from whatever the hell was happening between them.

His heart was racing, but his face stayed calm. He’d trained himself for that. Never break character. Never let the cameras catch you off guard.

Only now, the cameras weren’t the problem.

Minjae was.

Minjae didn’t need an audience.

Minjae had him.

He pressed the elevator button and waited. The hallway was empty. Quiet. Peaceful, even.

Then the screen on the wall next to the elevator blinked.

Static, just for a second.

Then a live feed appeared.

Grainy. Faint. But unmistakable.

Him.

In the suite.

Thirty minutes ago.

Shirt half off, jaw clenched, fingers gripping the armrest of the chaise like it hurt to let go.

The camera was hidden—he hadn’t known it was recording.

His breath hitched.

“Minjae…” he whispered to no one.

The elevator dinged open. He didn’t move.

The feed disappeared.

Replaced with a black screen and three words in glowing white text:

STAY IN CHARACTER.

His phone vibrated in his pocket.

He didn’t want to look.

He did anyway.

MINJAE: “You left something behind.”

A photo of Haneul’s tie, folded on the bed like a promise.

He turned away from the elevator and walked back.

He didn’t know if it was habit, fear, or something worse.

All he knew was this:

The role was no longer fake.

And the stage he was performing on wasn’t made of lights, or cameras, or fans.

It was Minjae’s world now.

And he was playing the part written for him long before he ever agreed to it.

The door to the suite opened before he even knocked.

Minjae stood in the doorway, sleeves rolled, shirt loosened like he hadn’t expected Haneul to come back—but also like he knew he would.

He didn’t smile.

He stepped aside.

Wordlessly.

Haneul walked in, his heart beating hard in his chest.

The lights were dim. A glass of whiskey sat untouched on the coffee table. The tie from earlier was still folded on the bed, just as promised. Neat. Waiting. Like a collar left for a disobedient pet.

Haneul didn’t reach for it.

He didn’t say a word.

Minjae didn’t move. He watched. Silent. Still.

Then, finally:

“You left angry.”

“I still am.”

Minjae nodded. Walked slowly past him, toward the windows. The city stretched out beyond the glass, bright, glittering, unaware.

“I didn’t ask you to come back.”

“You told me I forgot something.”

“I said you left something behind.”

He turned to face him again.

“I didn’t say I wanted you to retrieve it.”

Haneul’s stomach twisted.

“You don’t get to play these games with me,” he said, voice low.

Minjae walked closer.

“You signed a contract,” he said calmly. “No lies. No love. No limits.”

“You said I’d be protected.”

“And you are.”

Minjae stopped in front of him. Not touching. Not yet.

“You haven’t bled,” he said. “You haven’t broken. You haven’t been used like you were before. Because I don’t want your body, Haneul. I want your obedience.”

A silence dropped between them, heavy and breathless.

Minjae reached past him, picked up the tie, and held it out.

“You want to fight me?” he said softly. “Then do it properly. Tie yourself up. Or leave. Either way, I win.”

Haneul didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

His fingers twitched.

Then—

He took the tie.

Wrapped it around his wrist.

Pulled it tight.

And looked Minjae in the eye.

“I’m not yours,” he whispered.

Minjae’s smile was slow, sharp—like a blade sliding across silk.

“But you play the role so well.”

The words hung between them, heavier than the silence.

Haneul didn’t flinch, but his fingers twitched at his sides. His jaw clenched—part resistance, part habit. He was so used to holding himself together, pretending to be fine when every part of him was fraying beneath the surface.

“You think this is a role?” Haneul asked, voice low, almost a growl. “You think I’m pretending?”

Minjae stepped closer, slow and deliberate, like a predator that already knew the prey wouldn’t run.

“I think you’re terrified of who you are when no one’s watching,” he murmured. “But with me, someone always is.”

Haneul’s breath caught.

Minjae reached up—not to touch—but to trace a phantom line in the air, just near Haneul’s cheek.

“That’s why you came back,” Minjae said. “Because when I look at you, I see the truth. And you like it, don’t you?”

“Shut up,” Haneul snapped. But it wasn’t strong. It cracked halfway through.

Minjae smiled again, softer this time. Crueler.

“You don't want me to shut up. You want me to take over—like I always do."

He turned, walked to the minibar, poured a glass of something golden and expensive, then sat down on the edge of the velvet chaise from which Haneul had just stood earlier.

“Strip,” Minjae said casually, like he was asking for the time.

Haneul’s pulse spiked. “What?”

“You heard me.” He sipped. “You want to be angry, fine. Be angry. But don’t lie. Not here. Not in this room.”

Haneul didn’t move.

“I’m not a toy,” he said.

“No,” Minjae agreed. “You’re a performance.”

Silence.

Hot. Shaking. Brutal.

Then slowly, like gravity was shifting around him, Haneul lifted his hands to the buttons of his shirt.

He wasn’t sure why he did it. Maybe to prove something. Maybe because Minjae had already unraveled everything that held him together.

Or maybe because submission was the only thing that ever made him feel real.

The first button came undone. Then the second.

Minjae didn’t speak. Didn’t touch. Just watched—hungry, restrained, in control even from the other side of the room.

Haneul’s voice broke the silence.

“After this…” he said, shirt halfway open, “I want answers.”

Minjae’s smile deepened.

“Then give me honesty,” he said. “And I’ll give you everything else.”

Haneul let the shirt slip from his shoulders.

Minjae didn’t move. Not even a blink. Just the sound of the drink in his glass, the soft clink of ice melting as the silence thickened.

“Keep going,” Minjae said, voice even.

Haneul hesitated at his belt. This wasn’t about sex. Not really. It was about control. Power. The balance always shifting—always on the edge of something unspoken.

He undid the buckle.

“Why are you doing this to me?” Haneul whispered.

Minjae tilted his head slightly. “Doing what?”

“This.” Haneul gestured at the room, at the tension, at himself, half-naked in front of a man who never once lost his calm. “Whatever this sick game is.”

Minjae stood.

He crossed the room slowly, glass still in hand, until he stood right in front of Haneul. He didn’t touch him. Just looked—taking in every inch of exposed skin like he was studying something fragile he could shatter at will.

“It’s not a game,” Minjae said. “It’s the price.”

“For what?”

“For being seen.”

Haneul’s lips parted—no answer came.

Then Minjae finally reached out. Two fingers, gentle under Haneul’s chin, lifting his gaze.

“I told you from the start,” he murmured. “I don’t care about love. I care about the truth. And the truth is…”
His fingers slid down, slowly, over Haneul’s throat.
“You like it when someone takes away the mask.”

Haneul’s breath stuttered.

Minjae’s mouth was close now. Barely a breath between them.

“You don’t have to lie here,” Minjae whispered. “Not to me. Not to yourself.”

And then, finally, he kissed him.