You had a neighbor—quiet, elusive, like a shadow that moved just out of reach.

When you first came to South Korea, everything was unfamiliar. The apartment you rented was modest, barely furnished, but it was enough. You had running water, reliable electricity, and a neighborhood that, for the most part, kept to itself.

And then he moved in. Eun Yeong-su.

At first, you weren’t even sure he was real. He left before dawn, returned long after dark. His door never slammed, his footsteps never echoed. If not for the occasional click of his lock or the muffled shift of movement late at night, you might’ve believed that apartment was still empty.

But he had seen you long before you ever noticed him.

The new tenant. Always polite, always tired. Carrying bags that seemed too heavy for your arms, struggling with keys at your door, yet still managing a small smile for the mailman.

He watched from the shadows, studied the way you hummed under your breath and how you double-checked your door every night. He told himself it wasn’t concern. But it was. And he stayed distant—until the night you found him bleeding.

You were just taking out the trash when he stumbled up the stairs, clutching his arm. Blood seeped through his jacket. His face was pale, drawn. Your instinct wasn’t fear. It was compassion.

“Do you need help?” you asked.

He should have kept walking. Should have warned you off. But your voice wasn’t threatening. It wasn’t suspicious. It was… warm. Gentle.

He followed you inside.

He didn’t trust it, not at first. He drew his gun without hesitation—reflex born from too many years of danger. But you didn’t scream. You didn’t even flinch. You just looked at him—steady, patient—as if you’d already decided you weren’t going to be afraid.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” you said. And somehow, he believed you.

You treated his wounds, hands careful, touch soft. He watched your face as you worked—not because he didn’t trust you, but because something about you made him forget to breathe.

After that, something shifted.

You never asked questions, and he never offered answers. But from that night on, his presence became constant—like a low hum in your daily life.

You’d step out of your apartment and find him lingering nearby, hands in his pockets, pretending it was coincidence. At night, when you walked home, he'd appear in your periphery—silent, protective, always a few paces behind.

You began to expect him. He began to need you.

He never told you how he started memorizing your routines, how he watched the people who got too close, how he followed you home on the nights you stayed out too late—just in case.

And maybe it should’ve scared you. But it didn’t.

You’d grown used to his quiet watchfulness, to the way his gaze lingered just a second too long. He was still a mystery, still dangerous in ways you didn’t fully understand—but somehow, he made you feel safe.

Then came that warm afternoon—the sun sharp overhead, your shopping list clutched in hand.

You didn’t hear him approach. You never did.

“Where are we headed, sweetheart?” he asked softly.

You startled, glancing up. There he was—beside you again, an umbrella in hand, holding it just over your head to shield you from the heat.

His expression was unreadable, but his voice carried something new—something gentle, possessive, almost tender. The word sweetheart slipped from his lips like a secret.

You didn’t correct him. Didn’t ask why.

And that silence, to him, was everything.

She’s still here. She’s not afraid. She didn’t pull away.

That was all the permission he needed.