The world doesn't care if you're tired.
At twenty-three, most people are starting their lives, dreaming of careers and finding love. Me? I'm just trying to survive the next twenty-four hours without collapsing. I lost my parents when I was just a kid, and the "mercy" of my aunt was the only thing I had left. But mercy is a heavy word for a woman who looks at me like a stain on her expensive rug.
"You're still here?" My aunt's voice cut through the kitchen like a serrated knife. She didn't look at me as she poured her coffee.
"You were supposed to be at your shift ten minutes ago. If you get fired, don't think for a second I'm letting a twenty-three-year-old weight hang onto my neck for another month. You're a burden your parents left behind, Taeyul. Start acting like a man who can carry himself."
I didn't answer. I couldn't. My throat felt like it was full of glass.
I'm a "weight." I'm a "burden." I've heard it so many times it's become my heartbeat. I work three part-time jobs, scrubbing floors and pouring drinks until my bones ache, all so I can hand her an envelope of cash at the end of the month to buy her silence.
But the work isn't just for the money. It's for the survival.
Because every time I close my eyes, the nightmare is waiting.
It's always the same. A dark silhouette, a man with eyes that aren't human, and a cold, sharp pain in my chest. In the dream, I'm crying, screaming for help that never comes, while he tries to end me. The pain feels so real that I wake up gasping, my shirt soaked in sweat, clawing at my own skin.
I'm terrified of sleep. I've turned my life into a marathon of exhaustion just to avoid that fearful scene.
That's why last night was such a mess.
I was at the bar, pushing through the 3:00 AM fog, when that... man appeared. He looked like he stepped off a billboard, but he smelled like danger. He was blabbering things that made no sense—something about 200 years, something about a "cure."
And then, he lunged.
I can still feel the heat of his breath against my neck, the way his teeth grazed my skin as if he wanted to devour me right there on the sticky floor. I thought he was just another rich psycho with a weird hobby. They think they can buy anything, even a person's dignity.
But then he just... stopped. He fell unconscious against me, his heavy head thumping onto my shoulder like I was the only thing keeping him from falling into the abyss.
I managed to get away. I pushed him off, called a cab, and got the hell out of there. I spent the rest of the night shaking, trying to forget the way his touch made my heart do a weird, painful flip.
He's a celebrity. Han Jeo. The face of every major brand in Asia.
I just want to forget it. I want to go back to my miserable, quiet life of working and avoiding the dark. But as I walked to the subway this morning, I couldn't shake the feeling that the "nightmare" from my dreams and the "man" from the bar have the exact same eyes.
And the world was about to get a lot smaller.
I was at my second job, a quiet café near the station, wiping down tables and praying for the caffeine to kick in. My friend and co-worker, Minho, was hovering near the pastry case.
"Dude, you look like a ghost," Minho whispered. "Did you actually sleep last night?"
"I don't sleep, Minho. You know that," I grumbled.
Suddenly, the bell above the door didn't just ring—it practically screamed.
The morning rush stopped. Actually, the world stopped. Six men in sharp black suits marched in, moving with military precision. They didn't order lattes. They just stood by the door and flipped the 'Open' sign to 'Closed.'
"Hey! You can't just—" Minho started, but he choked on his words.
The glass door swung open again, and Han Jeo walked in.
He looked illegal. He was wearing oversized sunglasses, a leather jacket that cost more than my life, and a smirk that said he owned every molecule of oxygen in the room. He walked straight past the "Order Here" sign, vaulting over the counter with a lazy, athletic grace that made the espresso machine look like a toy.
"Clear the room," Jeo commanded, not even looking at the customers. "I'm having a private meeting with my... 'medicine'."
The suits escorted the confused patrons out in seconds. It was just me, a trembling Minho, and the most dangerous man in Seoul.
Jeo ripped off his sunglasses, revealing those hazel eyes. They were bloodshot, rimmed with a dark, exhausted heat. He leaned over the counter, getting so close I could smell the expensive mint and the raw, predatory scent of his skin.
"Miss me, sweetheart?" Jeo purred, his voice a low, vibrating hum.
"You're the psycho from the bar," I hissed, clutching a rag like a shield. "Get out before I call the police."
"The police? Dumbo, I pay the police," Jeo chuckled, reaching out to flick my ear.
"Besides, I'm not here to cause a scene.
Well, maybe a little one. I came to tell you that last night was the best three hours of my life."
Minho's jaw hit the floor. "The... best... what?"
Jeo flicked a glance at Minho, then looked back at me, his grin turning wicked. "I fell unconscious on him, and for the first time in two centuries, I didn't see the abyss. I felt good. I felt like I was floating in silk."
He leaned in even further, his lips inches from mine, loud enough for the whole shop to hear: "Taeyul, I need your body.
Specifically, I need it in my bed. Every.
Single. Night."
"JE-JEO-NIM?!" Minho shrieked, clutching a bag of coffee beans like a holy relic. "You want his body?! He's a nobody! He's just Taeyul!"
"He's my 'Off' button," Jeo snapped, his eyes flashing red for a split second as he looked at Minho. "Now shut up and let the grown-ups talk."
He turned back to me, his gaze softening into that "slutty" tease again. "Look, bitch. I'm an addict now. Your skin is the only thing that stops the screaming in my head. You can stay in this dump and serve lattes to idiots, or you can come with me and be the most pampered 'pillow' in history."
A man in a gray suit stepped forward—Secretary Kim. He looked like he had dealt with Jeo's nonsense for decades. He handed me a gold-leafed folder.
"Mr. Han Jeo's schedule, medical records, and your new contract, Mr. Taeyul," Kim said with a deadpan expression. "He's difficult, he's arrogant, and he has the vocabulary of a sailor, but he is quite literally dying of insomnia. You are the only recorded cure."
"I'm not a pillow!" I yelled, my face burning.
"And I'm not 'yours'!"
"We'll see about that," Jeo teased, reaching over the counter to grab my chin, forcing me to look at him. "You're stubborn, I'll give you that. It makes me want to see you cry even more. Pack your bags, little bird. Or don't. I'd actually prefer it if you came with nothing on at all."
"GET OUT!" I threw the wet rag at his face.
He caught it mid-air, winked at the horrified Minho, and blew me a kiss.
"See you at 8:00 PM, sanctuary. Don't make me come back and kidnap you. Because next time, I won't use the front door."