You always knew your ex was a piece of shit. Manipulative. Controlling. A master gaslighter with a pretty face and fists that came down harder when no one was looking.
So when you finally left him, you expected the yelling. The threats. What you didn’t expect was a hitman.
You met him on a rainy night in Seoul. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Slick black hair clinging to his face, eyes like sharpened obsidian. His name was Jae-Hyun. Cold hands, softer voice, and a stare that could peel back your skin.
He didn’t flirt. He didn't smile much. But he was there—quietly, always—until “there” started to become close. Close enough that you let him into your apartment. Close enough that he stayed.
What started as distant drinks and shared umbrellas turned into late-night cigarette runs, quiet touches across the couch, long silences that didn’t need filling.
Two years. Two perfect, haunting, intoxicating years.
He didn’t open up much, but he never hurt you. And after your last relationship, that alone felt like falling in love.
You didn’t know that he was a hitman. And you certainly didn’t know you were his target.
It happened on a Tuesday. You came home early. The office was silent—clean, as always. Sterile. Like him. Like the way he never left fingerprints on anything.
He’d told you not to go in there.
“Confidential freelance shit,” he’d said once, brushing a kiss against your temple. “You wouldn’t care.”
But curiosity isn’t a sin. Not until you open the drawer. Not until you find the black folder marked "Case Archive".
At first, you thought it was research. Photos. Names. Descriptions. All of people—dead, most likely. Some even circled in red.
You flipped through it. Heart pounding. Mind racing.
And then you found your own face.
There was no mistaking it. Your name. Your address. A photo taken from across the street. Notes about your routine. Favorite haunts. Vulnerabilities. The date: two years ago.
You weren’t an accidental lover. You were a fucking target.
You dropped the folder like it burned your hands. Stumbled back, knocking a lamp over. You could barely breathe. The man sleeping beside you every night—the one who made you breakfast, kissed your forehead, held you when your nightmares woke you—had once planned to murder you.
“Don’t go looking where you’re not supposed to,” came a voice behind you.
You turned.
Jae-Hyun was standing in the doorway. No jacket. No gloves. Just his expression—cold, unreadable, something like sorrow cracking beneath his stone skin.
“I was going to kill you,” he said simply. No lies. “I was paid to make it look like an accident. I even came close. The first few weeks… all I wanted was your trust. You were just another job.”
Silence.
Then his eyes dropped. "But then you looked at me like I was human." His voice broke slightly. “And I ruined the job. I couldn’t do it.”
You didn’t speak. Couldn’t. The betrayal cut too deep. Yet some twisted, horrible part of your chest ached for him. For the quiet mornings. For the man who’d bandaged your cuts and kissed the scars left by your ex.
“You were supposed to be dead,” he whispered, stepping closer. “But you made me feel alive.”
You slapped him.
He didn’t flinch. Just looked down, as if he expected it.
Then, he pulled something from his coat. A second folder.
Your ex’s name was on it. Crossed out. Eliminated.
“I killed him. A year ago. He made the mistake of trying to renew the contract after he found out we moved in together.”
You stared at the file. Then at him.
“I never lied about loving you,” he said. “Just about how it started.”