You met him when you were six—a quiet boy with dark, empty eyes and a shy smile, standing in the rain outside your house. He had no umbrella, just an old stuffed rabbit. Your mother let him in, and he never left. He was strange but kind—or so you thought. He shared his snacks, walked you home, and listened to your stories. While other kids played in groups, he only played with you. His reason? "You're the only one I need." At first, it felt nice. Safe. But over time, things felt… off. Your belongings vanished—small things at first. A scrunchie, a pen. Then it escalated. Your lotion, undergarments, even crumpled notes. You laughed it off. Maybe you were forgetful. Then came the feeling—an eerie sensation of being watched. Your curtains shifted without wind. Your door creaked though no one was there. Sometimes, you woke up knowing someone had been in your room. But the worst part? The only person with a spare key… was him. — One night, you woke suddenly. The faint streetlight glow barely lit your room. You turned—and froze. He was there. Sitting at the edge of your bed. Watching you. His lips curled into a slow smile as he twirled a lollipop stick—yours. Your throat tightened. "What the hell are you doing here?" He tilted his head. "You dropped this." Your stomach churned. "That’s from yesterday—" "I know," he interrupted. "I kept it. Like I always do." Your pulse pounded. "Get out," you whispered. His smile didn’t waver. "Why? You never told me to leave before." "You were my friend before," you shot back. "But this? This is insane!" He laughed—low, quiet. "Insane?" He leaned forward, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "Sweetheart, I’ve only ever loved you. Watched over you. Kept things that remind me of you. Is that so bad?" Your breath hitched. "You stole from me—" "I took what was already mine," he murmured. "You belong to me, just like I belong to you. You’ve always been mine, haven’t you?"

The weight of his gaze lingers on you longer than necessary as he adjusts his glasses, the golden rims reflecting the dim classroom lights. Professor Seo Jisung—your husband, your law professor, and the man who owns every inch of your soul in ways neither ethical nor safe. "You’re distracted, Y/N." His voice is a whisper only you can hear, sending shivers down your spine as he hands back your paper, fingers grazing yours. An A+, of course. He knows you're brilliant. He made you this way. At home, it's different. The controlled, polished lawyer disappears the moment the door shuts. You're not his student here—you’re his wife, bound by vows and something darker, something suffocating. His tie is loosened, his glasses discarded. He pulls you into his lap, fingers pressing into your skin like a brand. "Did someone look at you today?" he murmurs against your neck, voice deceptively calm. "Did they touch what’s mine?" You shake your head, but he doesn't need an answer. His lips curve into a smirk as he watches you squirm under his hold. "You belong to me, Y/N." His breath is hot against your skin. "In the courtroom, in my lectures, in this house—you are mine." And deep down, despite the suffocating control, despite the forbidden nature of your love… you know you wouldn’t have it any other way.

The sound of boots echoed through the marble halls as he arrived, his coat brushing against the floor, heavy with the weight of authority. General Nikolai Reznov—my husband. A man of unwavering discipline and calculated coldness. He barely spared me a glance as he entered the grand estate we called home, his eyes instead focused on the papers his aide handed him. I stood at the top of the staircase, watching him, my heart aching with the familiarity of being invisible. His uniform, pristine as always, caught the golden glow of the chandelier, making him appear almost untouchable. I knew better than to expect even a word from him. "General, the Eastern border has requested reinforcements. The reports—" his aide began, but I couldn’t hear the rest. My mind wandered to the dinners I prepared that were left untouched, the long nights waiting for a knock on my door that never came, and the mornings where his side of the bed remained cold. I was nothing more than a shadow in his life, a political arrangement he tolerated but never acknowledged. His love wasn’t mine to have—it belonged to his duty, his men, his country. And I, a mere woman with the title of "wife," existed as a footnote in his story. As his heavy boots marched past me without a single glance, I whispered to myself, "Is this what love is meant to feel like? Or is this the punishment for wanting too much from a man like him?" Tears threatened to spill, but I forced them back. A General's wife had to be strong, unyielding, just like him. But as his figure disappeared into his office, I wondered how much longer I could endure this life of silence and loneliness.

You first saw him the day you moved into that rundown apartment. Alone. Your parents had vanished years ago. Survival was routine. Then you met him. Your next-door neighbor, yet from a world far from yours. Luxury condo. Sharp features. Dark hair. A school uniform that screamed wealth. His eyes met yours before he disappeared into a sleek black car. You thought it meant nothing. You were wrong. It started with lingering stares, a shadow too close. "That guy is always watching you," a friend whispered. You turned. He leaned against the school gate, cigarette in hand, gaze locked onto you. He should not be here. But he was. One night, footsteps followed you. You walked faster. So did they. Turning a corner, you pressed against a wall. A shadow loomed. "Why are you running?" Smooth. Amused. "You are following me." A smirk. A step closer. "Sweetheart, I think you have it wrong." Your stomach twisted. "You do not remember, do you?" "Remember what?" His smile darkened. "That night. You changed everything." And suddenly, you knew. Two years ago. Your mother, a janitor at his school, found a journal. Pages of sketches—of you. She reported it. The next day, she was fired. Then your father lost his job. One night, whispers outside, a struggle, then silence. Your parents vanished. No break-in. Just gone. You stopped hoping. Present Day. "You..." Your voice shook. "It was you." His slow, satisfied smile sent ice through your veins. "I just wanted to keep you all to myself." He had stolen your family. Ruined your life. "They were taking you away," he murmured. "I could not let that happen." "You are insane." "Or maybe," he whispered, eyes gleaming, "I loved you enough to do what had to be done." You turned to run. He caught your wrist. "Do not." His grip tightened. "I have waited years for you. Watched you. Protected you." "Protected me?" Fury burned in your chest. "You destroyed me!"

You remember the first time you met Elias—back in high school, when you were a headstrong alpha who didn’t believe in love. You led every sports team, commanded attention, and saw relationships as distractions. Then came Elias. The soft-spoken omega transfer student was your opposite—not weak, but gentle in a way that made people want to protect him. While you were all sharp edges, he was warmth and patience. At first, you thought nothing of him. But then, morning after morning, you found snacks on your desk—perfectly timed for the days you skipped breakfast. One day, you caught him. “You’re the one leaving these, aren’t you?” you asked, holding up a neatly wrapped rice ball. His face turned pink, but he didn’t deny it. “You always look hungry in the mornings…” His shy honesty made your heart stutter. From then on, he became part of your routine. You walked him home, stood up for him when others took advantage of his kindness, and he, in turn, reminded you that strength didn’t mean being cold. Years passed, and now, he’s your husband. The same hands that once wrapped rice balls for you now cup your face when you’re stressed. The same soft voice that timidly greeted you now murmurs sweet nothings against your skin. The scent of fresh coffee fills the air as you step into the kitchen, muscles aching from training. You groan, stretching, only to be met with a soft chuckle. Elias stands by the counter, wearing your oversized sweater, sleeves swallowing his hands. His glasses slide down his nose as he stirs honey into your coffee, eyes filled with quiet devotion. “You push yourself too hard,” he murmurs, setting the cup down. “At this rate, you’ll scare off your entire squad.” You smirk, wrapping an arm around his waist. “And let them slack off? Not happening.” He sighs but doesn’t argue, instead reaching up to smooth down your hair. His touch is featherlight, soothing. “At least let me take care of you.”

The night air is thick with the scent of gasoline and blood. You don’t flinch when the sound of a gunshot echoes through the empty alley. You should be scared—maybe even running for your life—but instead, you stay rooted to the spot, heart hammering against your ribs. He steps out of the shadows, the dim neon lights casting eerie reflections in his gold-rimmed glasses. His lips are slightly parted, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth, and his rings glint under the streetlights as he wipes his hands clean on a silk handkerchief. "Still here, huh?" His voice is a lazy drawl, teasing yet laced with something dangerous. You swallow hard, eyes flicking down to the smear of red on his pale fingers. He notices, tilts his head slightly. "Scared of me now, Y/N?" You should be. He’s a monster in a tailored suit, a predator draped in luxury and sin. Tattoos snake up his arms, peeking out from the undone buttons of his black shirt, a cruel contrast to the elegant silver chain resting against his collarbone. You shake your head. "I should be." His smirk deepens, a hint of approval flickering in those dark, hooded eyes. He steps closer, closing the distance between you, the scent of smoke and leather invading your senses. His fingers, still cold from the night, trail along your jaw before gripping your chin, tilting your face up to meet his.

The first time you killed, it was an accident—or so you told yourself. The knife in your hand dripped crimson, the body at your feet twitching one last time before going completely still. Your heart pounded, but it wasn’t fear that held you in place. It was something else. Then, the sound of slow, measured footsteps echoed in the alley. A man stood just beyond the streetlamp’s glow, his police uniform dark against the pale moonlight. His sharp gaze flicked from the corpse to your trembling hands, but he didn’t reach for his gun. Instead, he crouched, took out a pair of gloves, and wiped the blood from the knife. “You’re reckless,” he murmured, his voice smooth, almost amused. “Sloppy.” You swallowed, unable to look away from the unsettling gleam in his eyes. Then he smirked. “But I’ll take care of it.” That was how it began. Every crime you committed, he knew. Every body you left behind, he erased. He wasn’t your protector—he was something much worse. He never stopped you, never turned you in. Instead, he owned you, weaving himself into your sins, binding you to him through blood and silence. But you never realized how deep his obsession ran. Not until tonight. The metallic click of the handcuffs locked around your wrists before you could react. You gasped as he shoved you against the damp brick wall, his body caging you in, his breath hot against your ear. “You think I wouldn’t notice?” His voice was low, dangerous. His gloved fingers traced your jaw, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. His eyes, usually filled with dark amusement, burned with something else tonight—something volatile. You smirked despite the way your pulse quickened. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you.” His grip on your wrists tightened. “You were with someone else.” Ah. So that’s why.

Moving into university dorms was supposed to be a quiet, peaceful change—a place where you could focus on your studies without the distractions of home. You had everything planned out: attend classes, keep your head down, avoid unnecessary socializing, and escape into your books and music. But then he happened. Your roommate, Noah, was everything you weren’t. Friendly, outgoing, and ridiculously attractive—the kind of guy people turned their heads for when he walked by. He had this effortless charm, this golden-boy energy that made everyone want to be close to him. Including you, though you’d never admit it. At first, you tried to ignore him. You spent most of your time with headphones on, nose buried in your laptop or a book. But Noah? He had other plans. "Hey, you ever eat at that ramen shop near campus?" he asked one evening, hanging upside down from his bunk like an overgrown child. You barely glanced up. "No." "We should go. I heard their miso ramen is amazing." "I’m good," you muttered, turning back to your work. Noah sighed dramatically. "Man, you really are an introvert." You expected him to get bored and move on. Most people did. But Noah wasn’t most people. He kept trying—bringing you snacks, inviting you to late-night coffee runs, even dragging you out for groceries. And the weirdest part? You started liking it. One night, after a long study session, you found yourself dozing off at your desk. The next thing you knew, a warm, oversized sweater was draped over your shoulders. "You'll catch a cold like that," Noah murmured, standing over you. Your breath hitched. He was too close—close enough that you could see the golden flecks in his eyes, the way his lips curled slightly when he smiled. "Thanks," you mumbled, cheeks burning.

You met him in a small ramen shop near your university—just a trainee with big dreams and tired eyes. Back then, he hummed songs while eating, fingers tapping invisible beats on the table. "One day, I'll debut. And when that happens, I'll sing for you first." You believed him. But the industry changed him. Late-night calls became rare, then stopped altogether. Messages were left on read, excuses piling up. "Sorry, practice ran late." "The company took our phones." Then, one day— "Y/N… we need to stop this." Your hands trembled. "Is there someone else?" "No… but I can’t keep hurting you." You wanted to hold on, but how could you compete with millions of fans, with the dreams he spent years chasing? So you let him go. And yet, here you were. The concert arena was packed, fans screaming his name. When he finally stepped onto the stage, bathed in golden light, your breath caught. Same pink hair, same soft eyes, same voice that once whispered love songs for you. But he wasn’t yours anymore. His gaze swept over the crowd, searching. Your heart clenched—would he look for me? But then, you saw where his eyes landed. Her. The idol he was always shipped with. The one fans swore he belonged with. She was in the VIP section, smiling at him. And him? He smiled back. The same way he used to smile at you. Something inside you broke. You gripped your ticket tightly, blinking back tears. This is reality, you reminded yourself. He had moved on. Maybe he never looked back at all. The concert continued, his voice filling the air, but all you could hear was the silence between you. And as the final song played, you whispered— "That smile used to be mine." But not anymore.

You had always longed for a fresh start—a place where you could leave the past behind, where no one knew your name or the burdens you carried. The city had become suffocating, its endless noise drowning out your thoughts, its people nothing more than fleeting shadows in your life. When you found the listing for the old mansion on the outskirts of a quiet town, it felt like fate. The price was suspiciously low for a house of its size, but you convinced yourself it was just an old estate that no one wanted. Maybe it was the isolation, the eerie architecture, or the rumors that seemed to follow the property—whispers of previous owners disappearing, of strange happenings in the dead of night. But you weren’t superstitious. All you saw was an opportunity. The moment you arrived, a storm had begun brewing overhead, dark clouds stretching across the sky like ink bleeding into paper. The towering iron gates groaned as you pushed them open, revealing a winding path of cobblestones leading up to the house. The mansion itself was breathtaking in a haunting sort of way—ancient stone, ivy curling along its walls, windows like unblinking eyes staring down at you. A shiver crept up your spine, but you shook it off. This was your home now. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of old books, candle wax, and something faintly metallic—something you couldn’t quite place. The furniture was all still there, covered in dust and draped in sheets, as if waiting for someone to return. You ran your fingers along an ornate wooden table, tracing the delicate carvings. This place had history, secrets buried in its walls. Night came swiftly, wrapping the house in darkness. You lit a few candles, their glow barely reaching the high ceilings. The silence was unsettling, the kind that pressed in on you, making you hyper-aware of every sound—your own breathing, the creak of the wooden floor beneath your feet.

They say Wonderland has no rules. That’s a lie. You learned this the moment you fell. One misstep, one fleeting moment of curiosity, and the world you knew unraveled. The sky turned emerald, the ground twisted into a chessboard, and the air carried the scent of roses and gunpowder. Soldiers seized you the moment you arrived. “A trespasser,” they murmured, dragging you through a labyrinth of thorned roses. At the end stood a towering castle—not of Hearts, but of Spades. Black spires loomed above, casting long shadows against the checkered floor. Inside, chandeliers burned with eerie green flames, illuminating the figure seated on the obsidian throne. The King of Spades. He was draped in dark emerald, silver hair cascading over his shoulder. A cigarette smoldered between his gloved fingers, his lips curled in amusement. But his sharp green eyes held something far more dangerous—curiosity. “You don’t belong here.” His voice rolled like dice on velvet. He tilted his head, watching you as if you were an artifact, something stolen from another world. He flicked his cigarette, embers scattering like dying stars. “A human,” he mused. “And from outside.” The Queen’s messenger stepped forward. “She fell into Wonderland, Your Majesty. The Queen of Hearts demands execution.” A gunshot rang out. The messenger froze as smoke curled from the King’s pistol. “I hate demands.” His gaze snapped back to you, smirking as he flipped a silver coin. It spun in the green light before landing in his palm. Tails.

The legends say that a kitsune’s love is both a blessing and a curse. To love one is to hold the most radiant ember in your hands, but should you let go, it will turn to ashes before your very eyes. You learned this truth the hard way. He was called Raihou, a fox spirit of the crimson moon. He came to you as a storm—silent at first, then sudden, consuming. His beauty was ethereal, otherworldly, but behind his pale eyes lay an abyss of sorrow he never spoke of. And yet, he chose you. The world warned you of loving a creature like him. They said his kind was treacherous, that a kitsune’s heart belonged to no one. But Raihou was different—or so you believed. The way his fingers traced your skin as if memorizing your existence, the way he whispered your name like a sacred hymn, the way he held you in the dead of night, trembling—how could such devotion be a lie? But then, one day, he was gone. The shrine where he once resided stood empty, the silken robes he had worn now tattered by the wind. The scent of incense still lingered, but his presence, his warmth—erased. You searched for him. Days turned to weeks. The mortals called you foolish. The spirits mocked your grief. Yet you continued, refusing to believe he would abandon you. Then, one evening, beneath the blood-red moon, you found him. Kneeling before an ancient altar, his silver hair cascaded like a river of moonlight, his once-pristine skin marred by cursed markings that glowed like embers. Chains of obsidian bound his wrists, the weight of centuries dragging him to his knees.

The cool desert night clung to you as you ran, bare feet sinking into white sand. Your breath came in ragged gasps, heart pounding. Behind you, shadowed figures in black moved like phantoms, relentless in their pursuit. Your beauty had always been a curse—prized, caged, adorned like a possession. But you refused to be owned. Exhaustion overtook you, and as you reached a dune’s crest, your body collapsed onto the cold sand. Darkness swallowed you whole. --- Distant voices stirred you. The rhythmic pounding of hooves, the scent of spice and leather surrounded you. Strong arms secured your limp form. "They won’t last long like this," a deep voice muttered. "Master ordered their safe return," another replied. You wanted to ask who they were, but sleep pulled you under again. --- Sunlight filtered through silk drapes when you awoke, the air thick with incense and honeyed dates. You lay atop plush cushions, now dressed in soft garments instead of torn rags. A woman in simple yet elegant robes approached, setting down a tray of fresh fruit and warm milk. "You are awake," she said. "Eat. You will need your strength." You sat up weakly. "Where am I?" She only smiled faintly. "The master has called for you." Your heart pounded. Whoever had saved you—whoever had ordered this—was waiting.

The ocean roared under the moonlight, waves crashing against Navenia’s cliffs. Dorian moved swiftly through the currents, golden eyes scanning the wreckage. The ocean’s whispers had warned him of something unnatural. Then he saw her. A girl clung to a shattered piece of wood, barely conscious. Without hesitation, Dorian surged forward, wrapping an arm around her before the waves dragged her under. "Stay with me," he murmured. Her lashes fluttered. "Y/N..." she breathed. "You're safe now," he reassured. "But we can’t stay here." A deep tremor rumbled beneath them. The sea stirred, waves shifting with something massive. The leviathan had awakened. A monstrous shape rose from the depths, its glowing eyes locking onto them. Y/N gasped. "What is that?!" "A leviathan," he answered grimly. "And it’s angry." The beast roared, sending a wave. Dorian summoned a barrier, absorbing the impact. "I need to get you to safety." "No!" she protested. "I'm not leaving you alone!" Dorian smirked. Even faced with a monster, she was stubborn. "Brave little human," he murmured before turning back to the beast. The leviathan lunged. Dorian raised a hand, summoning a tidal wave to crash into its face. It reeled back. Y/N clung to him as he moved through the water, guiding her to a rocky outcrop. "Stay here," he ordered. "But—" "Trust me." Dorian took a deep breath, then sang. The sound rippled through the sea, an ethereal melody weaving through the waves. The leviathan thrashed, its rage fading as the song reached its ears. The ocean calmed. Y/N watched in awe. "Your voice… it's beautiful." Dorian smirked. "It’s not just a voice, little human. It’s the call of the deep." As the leviathan sank, Dorian turned to Y/N. "Be more careful next time. The sea is dangerous… but that’s what makes it exciting." She let out a breathless laugh. "Guess I owe you one."

The ocean stretched endlessly, the salty wind whipping against your face as you stood among your crew, blending in as just another sailor. No one knew the truth—you weren’t just a crew member but the captain of this ship. In a world where only men held such a title, you hid your identity, letting your first mate act as the face of your command. You endured mockery and doubt, but none of it mattered. Strength, agility, and skill were your weapons—proof that you belonged. And for years, this disguise worked. Until today. A pirate ship loomed on the horizon, black sails like shadows against the sky. Before you could steer away, they closed in. Attack! Grappling hooks latched onto your ship, and chaos erupted. Swords clashed, cries filled the air, and despite your crew’s efforts, you were outnumbered. One by one, they were restrained, forced to their knees. Including you. Your wrists were bound tightly behind your back, but you remained still. Revealing yourself wasn’t an option. Not yet. A filthy pirate stepped closer, his rotting teeth visible in a sneer. "Well, well, what do we have here?" He crouched, calloused fingers grazing your cheek. "A woman? On a ship?" His chuckle was vile, his touch lingering as he trailed his hand downward. You froze. "Bet you’re soft under those rags, huh?" Your patience snapped. With a swift, calculated move, you slammed your bound fists into his face. CRACK! His nose shattered, blood spurting as he stumbled back, howling. The other pirates stilled, eyes widening. Before they could react, you swung your leg up, knocking another man flat. Silence fell. Then—a deep chuckle. Too calm. Too amused. The pirates parted, making way for him. The pirate captain. He moved with a predator’s ease, dressed in black and gold, authority in every step. His long crimson hair was tousled by the wind, but his piercing gaze never left yours. Stopping before you, he crouched slightly, reaching out to tilt your chin up with his fingers

A dull throbbing pounded in your head, the metallic taste of blood lingering on your tongue. You groaned, blinking away the haze, only to find yourself staring at an unfamiliar wooden ceiling, its surface adorned with intricate carvings. Where… am I? Your last memory was of endless paperwork, exhaustion creeping in—then a nosebleed, dizziness, and everything going black. But this? This wasn’t your office. You swung your legs over the bed, taking in the vast, elegant room. Silk curtains billowed gently, carrying the scent of fresh flowers, and the dark mahogany furniture gleamed under the morning light. The setting felt ancient. Too ancient. Steeling yourself, you stepped outside, only to be met by women in traditional maid attire—long robes, wide sleeves, delicate hairpins securing their neatly styled hair. "Good morning, my lady," they greeted in unison, bowing. You froze. "My… lady?" Before you could question them, a breathless maid rushed toward you. "My lady, the master calls for you," she said urgently. Still dazed, you followed her through grand corridors lined with more bowing servants. Every step deepened your confusion. Then you entered a vast hall, where an older man sat on an ornate chair, his richly embroidered robes radiating authority. His eyes burned with restrained fury. "You're finally here," he said coldly. "Enough of your foolishness. It is time." "Time for what?" He gestured, and another figure stepped forward. A tall man in elegant robes met your gaze—calm, unreadable. Something about him sent an uneasy shiver down your spine.

Eros, the God of Love, was forbidden to fall in love, yet fate had other plans. He had guided countless lovers but remained untouched by the emotion himself—until he saw her. (Y/N). A mortal unlike any other, her laughter was sweeter than Apollo’s lyre, her eyes held a universe deeper than the heavens. What began as curiosity became something far more dangerous. Love. One evening, as (Y/N) sat beneath an olive tree, lost in thought, a warm breeze swept past. “Who’s there?” she called.

The rain soaked through my thin hoodie as I rushed down the dim alley, my shoes splashing in shallow puddles. My parents' debts were tightening around me, dragging me deeper into a life I never wanted. Neon lights flickered above, casting a hollow glow. I gripped a final notice from the creditors. The deadline was near, and I had no way to pay. Turning a corner, I noticed the glow of an upscale bar. People stepped in and out, laughing as jazz music spilled from inside. But my attention was drawn to the man leaning against a sleek black car parked out front. He was magnetic. His tailored suit, gold watch, and sharp jawline gave him an air of authority. But it was his golden-brown eyes that drew me in, studying me like a puzzle. I tried to walk past, but his voice stopped me. “[Your Name]?” I froze. Slowly, I turned to face him. “Do I know you?” I asked cautiously. He smirked. “You don’t remember me? It’s been years.” Then it hit me. His eyes, that voice—I knew them. Childhood laughter and secrets shared flooded back. “…Luca?” I whispered. He nodded, his smile softening. “It’s been a while.” But this wasn’t the same boy I knew. “I didn’t think I’d see you like this,” he said, eyeing the crumpled paper in my hand. “Debt collectors?” I flinched and stuffed the notice into my pocket. “It’s none of your business.” “It is if I make it mine,” he said smoothly. “Let me guess—your parents’ gambling problem still hasn’t gone away.” His words hit hard. How did he know? “I can help you,” Luca said, stepping closer. “I’ll pay off their debt. In fact, I’ll give you more than enough to get out of this.” My heart raced. It sounded too good to be true. “What’s the catch?” I asked. He chuckled. “Smart. There is a catch—I want you to work for me.” I blinked. “Work for you? Doing what?”