Inside the penthouse that hovered over the Seoul skyline like a crown of glass, Han Jeo was in the middle of a manic episode.
He had spent the last hour personally arranging the room. The silk sheets had to be perfect. The lighting had to be "moody but not murderous." He looked like a man preparing for a coronation, or perhaps a sacrifice.
"No, no, no! The candles need to be scentless, Kim," Jeo snapped, gesturing wildly at the black-and-gold duvet. "If the room smells like a funeral parlor, he'll think I'm going to eat him. I want it to smell like... expensive air."
Manager Kim stood by the door, looking at his watch with a bored, straight-faced expression. "Sire, it is a bedroom, not a gallery opening. And technically, you are a predator. The 'eating him' part is a valid concern for a human."
"I invited him so delicately," Jeo mused, checking his reflection for the hundredth time. He adjusted his silk robe, making sure just enough of his chest was visible. "I was charming. I was persuasive. I even used his name."
"You told him you needed his body and called him a bitch in front of his customers," Kim replied, his voice flat. "Your behavior can be a problem in your way, Sire. Most people prefer a 'hello' over a public demand for their physical presence in a bed."
Jeo's eyes flared a jagged, dangerous red.
"Manager Kim, I haven't kept you alive for a hundred years just so you could disappoint me with your lack of faith. He'll come."
Kim let out a long, disappointed sigh. "I'll go prepare the tea. For one. Since the 'sanctuary' is currently at a cafe thirty miles away trying to pretend you don't exist."
The clock on the café wall was ticking like a bomb. 7:45 PM.
I was scrubbing the milk steamer with so much force the metal was starting to groan. I wanted to scrub away the feeling of Han Jeo's fingers on my chin. I wanted to scrub away the way his voice had sounded—that low, "slutty" vibration that made my skin feel like it was on fire.
Minho was sitting on a high stool, watching me like I was a science experiment. "Tell me why you didn't tell me about Han Jeo. What happened? How? When? Is he actually a patient or just a really committed freak?"
"It was last night, Minho. I didn't have time to tell you because I was too busy wondering if I'd finally lost my mind," I snapped.
"Okay, thinkable," Minho muttered, spinning in his chair. "But... what about his 'thing'? Are you going? You've got fifteen minutes to get to the penthouse."
I stopped scrubbing and looked at him, my eyes burning from exhaustion. "You know my problem, Minho. I can't sleep. Every time I try, that man in the shadows is there, trying to kill me. It's a nightmare. So why would I go to a man who calls me to 'sleep' with him?
It's weird. It's twisted. I'm not a toy for some rich psycho."
"But he was blabbering about 200 years, Taeyul," Minho pointed out, leaning in. "He looked like he was literally falling apart. And when you touched him... he fell asleep.
Maybe he's not the only one who needs a 'cure'."
"I don't know," I said, my voice shaking as I threw the rag into the sink. "And I don't want to know. I'm staying here. I'm going to work, I'm going to stay awake, and I'm going to stay far away from Han Jeo."
I looked at the clock. 7:55 PM. My body felt heavy, a strange pulling sensation in my chest that pointed straight toward the center of the city. I hated him. I hated his expensive clothes, his arrogant mouth, and the way he called me 'bitch'.
But then I remembered the silence. The way the world had gone quiet when I held his hand.
"I'm not going," I whispered, gripping the edge of the counter until my knuckles turned white. "I'm definitely... not going."
The clock struck 8:05 PM.
The silence in the penthouse was no longer luxurious; it was suffocating. Han Jeo stood by the window, his reflection ghostly against the city lights. He looked like a king who had been stood up by his only subject.
"He's not coming, Sire," Manager Kim said, his voice a dry, teasing monotone as he sipped a cup of tea. "Perhaps your 'delicate' invitation wasn't as irresistible as you thought."
Han Jeo didn't turn around. His fingers curled into the expensive velvet curtains.
"Go collect him," he rasped, the command cutting through the room like a blade. "Bring him here. Now."
"And if he refuses?"
"I didn't ask for his opinion. Go. Collect.
Him."
As the black cars screeched out of the garage, Jeo paced the room like a caged panther. He grabbed one of the decorative silk pillows he had so carefully fluffed earlier. With a snarl of pure frustration, he squeezed.
Rip. White feathers exploded into the air, dancing around his head like a snowstorm.
"Manager Kim," Jeo whispered in a dangerous lowercase tone that made the feathers flutter. "I haven't felt this ignored in two centuries. It's... infuriating. It's almost... exciting."
Kim let out a muffled, disappointed snort from behind his tea. "I told you, Sire. You're a problem."
....
I saw them before they even stopped.
Three black SUVs with tinted windows pulled up to the curb of the café like a funeral procession. My heart hammered against my ribs. I didn't need to see the license plates to know who sent them.
"Minho, lock the back door," I whispered, my voice cracking.
"What? Why—oh. Oh crap. Taeyul, is that the 'Vogue' swat team?"
The doors of the SUVs opened simultaneously. Six men in suits stepped out.
They didn't look like they were here for a latte.
I didn't wait. I grabbed my jacket and bolted.
I didn't go for the front; I dived through the kitchen, pushed past the delivery crates, and burst out into the damp alleyway behind the shop.
I ran. I didn't care where. I just knew that if those suits caught me, I was going to end up as a permanent resident in a golden cage.
My lungs burned. Every shadow looked like Han Jeo. Every sound felt like his voice calling me dumbo.
Back at the penthouse, Jeo's phone vibrated. He snatched it up.
"Speak," he barked.
"Sire... the target has fled. He went out the back of the café. He's surprisingly fast.
Jeo's grip on the phone tightened. A few more feathers settled on his blonde hair, making him look like a deranged, beautiful angel. He looked at Manager Kim, who was visibly trying not to laugh at the sight of his boss covered in pillow stuffing.
"He ran?" Jeo asked, a dark, breathless chuckle escaping his throat. "He actually ran away from me?"
"Told you, Sire," Kim murmured, his eyes twinkling with boredom and amusement.
"Manager Kim!" Jeo shouted, his voice dropping into that lethal, possessive growl again. He threw the remains of the pillow across the room, a cloud of feathers following it. "Get him at all costs! If he wants a chase, I'll give him one. But when I catch him—and I will catch him—he's never going to see the outside of this bedroom again!"