Not soft.
Not cruel.
Just enough to steal the breath from Haneul’s lungs and leave the taste of surrender blooming across his tongue.
Minjae’s kiss wasn’t rushed. It was calculated, like he already knew how Haneul would respond.
And he was right.
Haneul kissed him back.
Desperately.
Furiously.
Like if he kissed hard enough, he could drown out the shame. The fear. The part of him that hated how easy it was to obey.
Minjae’s hand slid into his hair, tugging just hard enough to force his head back. Haneul gasped—and that sound, small and broken, made something dark flicker in Minjae’s eyes.
“You’ve trained the world to see you as theirs,” Minjae said against his mouth. “But when you fall apart… that’s only for me.”
He pushed Haneul gently until the back of his knees hit the edge of the bed. Another push and he was sitting, shirtless, belt undone, breath heaving like he’d run a marathon through his shame.
Minjae undid his cufflinks slowly, like he had all the time in the world.
“You think I want your body?” he asked. “I could’ve had it a hundred different ways. Leverage. Money. Threats. That’s not what I’m after.”
He knelt, suddenly, between Haneul’s knees.
“What I want…” Minjae whispered, fingers resting on Haneul’s thighs, “Is this. Right here. The part of you that breaks when no one’s looking.”
Haneul's fingers gripped the edge of the mattress.
“This isn’t fair,” he breathed.
“Neither is life,” Minjae said. “But you’re still here.”
Minjae leaned in again, brushing his lips along Haneul’s collarbone, then down—slow, reverent, cruel.
His mouth was warm, his breath cooler in contrast, leaving chills across skin that had only ever been touched for image, never meaning.
Haneul trembled. Not from fear. Not exactly.
From the terrifying familiarity of being stripped bare—not just in body, but in self.
His belt clinked as it slid free from the loops.
Minjae didn’t rush. Every motion was precise, clinical. Not lust-driven. Intent-driven.
Haneul’s pulse pounded in his throat.
“I’m not your toy,” he whispered.
Minjae paused. Lifted his gaze.
“No,” he murmured, “you’re my proof.”
Haneul frowned. “Of what?”
“That people can be rewritten.”
He dragged the belt between his fingers and dropped it beside the tie. Then he leaned in, voice like a knife wrapped in velvet.
“You’re so good at pretending to be clean. Normal. Desired. But I’ve seen you in pieces, remember?”
Haneul’s breath hitched.
That cam feed—the elevator screen—the flash of himself in a moment he thought no one had recorded.
“You don’t get to weaponize that,” he said. “I didn’t consent—”
Minjae stepped back.
“You streamed it.”
His voice was soft, factual.
“You put yourself on a stage. I just never left the audience.”
That shut him up. Shame curled in Haneul’s gut, hot and acid-raw.
Minjae moved again, lifting the glass from the table and taking a slow sip, eyes never leaving him.
“Sit back down,” he said.
Haneul didn’t move.
“I said sit back down.”
The command in his voice dropped a note lower. It wrapped around Haneul like a chain, dragging him to stay down without a touch.
He obeyed. Slowly. Backed against the pillows.
Arms limp at his sides. Breathe shallow.
Minjae walked forward until his knees touched the edge of the bed.
He didn’t touch him. Not yet.
Just looked.
“You know,” he said, “I was going to wait.”
“For what?”
“For you to break on your own.”
Haneul’s jaw tensed. “I’m not broken.”
Minjae smiled.
“Not yet.”
He reached into the inside pocket of his blazer and pulled out a sleek black USB drive.
Haneul’s stomach dropped.
Minjae held it up, turning it slowly between his fingers.
“Elevator footage. The suite. Your moans. That hungry look you gave the mirror when you thought you were alone.”
“You said this wasn’t about blackmail.”
Minjae stepped closer, leaned down, and placed the USB on the nightstand.
“It isn’t,” he said. “But you need to know what I have. Because only then will you understand how easily I could ruin you—”
He straightened, voice turning colder—
“—and how merciful it is that I haven’t.”
Haneul stared at the USB like it might burn him.
Minjae finally touched him again—fingers to his jaw, firm.
“I protect what I own.”
“Fuck you,” Haneul spat, eyes flashing.
Minjae chuckled softly. “No. Not yet. That comes later.”
He picked up the discarded tie from the bed, moved behind Haneul, and—gently, with devastating precision—wrapped it around his throat.
Loose. Silken. A whisper of a threat.
Haneul didn’t stop him.
“You’re going to stay quiet tonight,” Minjae said against his ear. “You’re going to let me fix what they broke.”
“And if I don’t?”
Minjae pulled the tie tighter, just a breath.
“Then I release everything. Let the world see what they missed on camera.”
He leaned down. Kissed the edge of Haneul’s mouth.
“But that’s not what you want, is it?”
“No,” Haneul whispered.
“What do you want?”
“…Control.”
Minjae smiled like he’d just won a war.
“You’re mine now,” he said, voice soft, final.
“Let’s make sure no one else ever sees this… unless I say so.”
Haneul closed his eyes. The words echoed, too calm for the weight they carried.
He didn’t know if it was fear, exhaustion, or the relief of finally surrendering to something that didn’t ask him to be perfect, just obedient.
He let out a shaky breath.
“I’m tired of pretending,” he murmured.
Minjae didn’t respond right away. Instead, he unfastened the buttons of his shirt, one by one, with the same measured calm he applied to everything. Haneul watched from beneath his lashes. It wasn’t seductive. It was… deliberate.
Everything Minjae did was deliberate.
The tie still hung around his neck like a leash he hadn’t realized he’d accepted. The USB sat on the nightstand like a silent witness.
Minjae tossed his shirt aside and walked back to the bed. He stopped in front of Haneul and tilted his head.
“Last chance,” he said. “You want out? Say it now.”
Haneul hesitated. His lips parted.
But the words didn’t come.
Because the truth was, even if he walked away now, he’d still be owned. Not by contract. Not even by the footage.
But by the way, Minjae saw him.
And by how badly he wanted to be seen.
So instead, he sat up, reached for Minjae’s wrist, and guided his hand to his throat—over the tie.
Tightening it.
Minjae inhaled slowly, nostrils flaring. A flicker of pride—or maybe satisfaction—passed through his eyes.
“Good boy,” he whispered.
Haneul flinched. But didn’t stop him.
Minjae leaned in, pressing his body down over Haneul’s, pinning him gently, but firmly, against the mattress. His hands found Haneul’s wrists and raised them above his head, pressing them into the pillow.
“You know the difference between sex and power?” he murmured.
Haneul swallowed. “No.”
Minjae’s grip tightened.
“Consent.”
He lowered his mouth to Haneul’s neck and left a single, biting kiss against the mark that was already forming. A bruise in the making. A signature.
“You gave it to everyone who never deserved it,” he said. “But now, you’re going to give it to me. Every time. Until you forget what it feels like to say yes without meaning it.”
Haneul turned his head, breath trembling, lips parted but silent.
Minjae didn’t rush. He mapped every inch of exposed skin with slow, deliberate hands. No moaning. No messy chaos. Just control. Just possession.
And when Haneul finally gasped—a sound he couldn’t suppress—Minjae’s lips curled.
“There you are,” he said softly. “No cameras. No fans. Just you.”
Time stretched, distorted. Every touch blurred the line between obedience and surrender, between being used and being wanted.
Minjae didn’t stop until Haneul was trembling under him, raw and stripped of every lie he wore like armor.
When it was over, the suite was silent.
Haneul lay on the bed, chest rising and falling slowly. The tie was still looped around his neck, loosened now. Minjae sat beside him, legs crossed, shirt back on but half-buttoned, watching him like a director reviewing a scene.
“You didn’t break,” Minjae said.
“I’m not broken,” Haneul whispered.
“No,” Minjae agreed. “You’re just beginning.”
He stood, walked to the window, and stared out over the city.
“You should go. You have filming at ten.”
Haneul sat up slowly. His body ached in unfamiliar places. His mind is more than his limbs.
He moved to grab his coat but paused.
“Why me?” he asked. “Why all of this?”
Minjae didn’t turn around.
“Because I watched you pretend for too long,” he said. “And I got tired of seeing you lie to the world.”
He glanced back, eyes sharp in the reflection of the glass.
“You want to survive this industry? Then stop trying to be the good guy. Start being the real one.”
Haneul didn’t reply.
He picked up his coat, slipped it on, and walked toward the door.
“Next time,” Minjae called quietly, “don’t be late when I call.”
Haneul paused at the threshold. He didn’t look back.
But his voice was clear.
“I won’t.”
The door clicked shut behind him.
The hallway outside the suite was quiet. Carpeted. Gilded. Too expensive to hold the kind of shame Haneul carried as he walked toward the elevators again, this time slower. Numb.
He pressed the button. The elevator doors opened with a soft ding. But he didn’t step in.
Instead, he leaned against the cold marble wall beside it, letting the silence seep in. His reflection in the glass across the hall stared back—tie still loose around his neck, lips bruised, hair tousled. He didn’t look like himself.
Or maybe he did. For the first time in years.
His phone buzzed.
MINJAE:
“Fix your collar before anyone sees you. I won't warn you twice.”
He stared at the message for a long second.
And then—like some kind of sick reflex—he smoothed the collar. Tightened the tie.
The elevator doors closed again, empty.
Three Days Later
He was back on set. Lights. Boom mics. PA’s shouting. Everyone is asking for a piece of him.
He delivered every line perfectly. Hit every mark. Smiled in all the right moments. No one could tell that he hadn't slept in days.
No one except Minjae, who stood just off-camera, watching with arms crossed, sunglasses hiding whatever expression might betray him.
But Haneul could feel it anyway.
That ownership.
And somehow, it anchored him.
When the director called cut, Haneul moved toward the edge of the set where bottled water waited.
Minjae was already there.
“You missed your cue in scene four,” he said, handing him a drink. “Half a second delay.”
“I was improvising.”
“You were distracted.”
Haneul took the bottle but didn’t drink. “Maybe I had something on my mind.”
Minjae leaned in slightly, his voice low and casual.
“You want to survive this industry?” he murmured. “Then leave your feelings at the door. Or let me control them for you.”
“I’m not your puppet.”
“No,” Minjae said, stepping back. “You’re my masterpiece.”
That Night – Studio Parking Lot
The night air was crisp. Too cold for just a hoodie, but Haneul didn’t care. He lit a cigarette with shaking fingers and leaned against his car, exhaling slowly.
He didn’t hear Minjae approach—he never did.
“Smoking ruins your voice.”
“Everything ruins me eventually,” Haneul muttered.
Minjae took the cigarette from his hand, dropped it, and crushed it under his shoe.
Then he stepped close. Not touching—but near enough that the heat between them snapped tight again.
“You’re unraveling,” Minjae said softly. “Good.”
Haneul narrowed his eyes. “Why does that excite you?”
Minjae smirked. “Because I want to rebuild you from scratch.”
“Into what?”
Minjae stepped closer still.
“Into someone the world will never forget.”
Haneul stared at him. Somewhere between defiance and collapse.
“I hate you,” he whispered.
Minjae smiled again. The same smile he’d given on the red carpet. On the suite bed. In every shadowed corner of Haneul’s life now.
“But you’ll thank me.”
And with that, Minjae turned and walked away, leaving Haneul in the dark.
Alone.
Again.
Only this time, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to be.
Haneul didn’t move for a long time.
The parking lot was still, humming with the low electric buzz of streetlights overhead and the distant whirr of production trucks being loaded. Somewhere, a crew member laughed too loudly. A car door slammed. Life continued, indifferent to the fracture inside him.
His fingers hovered near his lips, where the taste of smoke still lingered. He thought about lighting another cigarette. He thought about screaming. He thought about getting in the car and driving until the road disappeared under him and he was just… gone.
Instead, he sank to the asphalt, back against the cold metal of his car, and stared up at the night sky.
No stars.
Just the neon glow of the industry that had swallowed him whole.
He didn’t cry.
Tears would’ve made it feel too simple—like sadness was the only emotion he had left. But what throbbed inside him wasn’t sadness. It was everything. Rage, shame, want, fear… and that sick, gnawing thing that sounded too much like need.
He hated Minjae.
But he hated how Minjae understood him more.
No one else ever saw through the mask. No one else ever dared to rip it off and make him feel real beneath the rot of fame and fantasy.
Not even Haneul himself.
His phone buzzed in his hoodie pocket.
He didn’t want to check.
He did anyway.
MINJAE:
Tomorrow. 9 A.M. Sharp. No cameras. No script. Just us.
Bring the tie.
He stared at the message.
Then, without thinking, he saved it. No reply. No emojis. Just a ghost of a breath caught in his throat.
When he finally stood, his knees ached. His muscles were stiff. His chest is hollow.
But the weight in his pocket—the phone, the message, the memory—was heavier.
He climbed into the driver’s seat. Shut the door. Sat there in the dark for a full minute with his hands on the wheel and his eyes on the empty passenger seat.
He didn’t start the car.
He just sat.
And for the first time in a long time, he whispered something aloud, to no one.
Something real.
“I don’t know who I am anymore.”
The silence offered no answers.
Just a reflection in the rearview mirror.
Hollow-eyed. Lips bruised. The tie is still knotted too tightly.
He looked at himself for a long time.
And then, slowly—
He smiled.
Not the clean, perfect one the fans loved.
A different smile.
A dangerous one.
A broken one.
A real one.
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