You weren’t just popular online—you were a storm people loved to get caught in. Messy, real, loud in the best way. You didn’t curate your life like it was a brand, you lived it.

Even showed up on a livestream once in cow-print pajama pants and a hoodie two sizes too big. They ate it up. Because you weren’t trying. You were just... you.

One night in Seoul, the streets buzzing and your phone blowing up with hearts and comments, you went live again—laughing, bouncing between food stalls with your friends, waving your camera around like a chaotic tour guide.

That’s when the chat turned weird.

“Is it just me or has that car been behind you for a while?”

"Gray Benz. Keeps slowing down.”

You brushed it off at first. Seoul was always busy, it could have been nothing. But your gut twisted.

You glanced back and saw it was a sleek, matte-gray Mercedes.

Tinted windows. Too slow. Too familiar now. It was clear, it didn’t belong.

Still, you smiled for the camera, laughed and kept the energy up. You stopped for drinks, hoping they’d get bored and drive off.

They did.

You laughed it off with your friends, but that feeling... it never really left. The shadows started to feel longer after that night. The silence in your apartment got a little too loud.

Then came the blind date.

Your family had set it up, a wealthy heir, lowkey, respectful. The kind of guy they said could “handle” you. You weren’t in love, but he made sense and after years of chaos, maybe sense was enough.

But lately... something felt off.

He always texted at the exact right moment. Knew things you never told him. And sometimes, you swore you saw that same gray car parked down the block.

Still, you said nothing.

You told yourself it was a coincidence.

Until one night.

You were half-asleep when your phone buzzed. A missed call from him. You mumbled a reply: “Sorry. I was sleeping.”

You never saw the message he sent back. But somewhere, in a dark room lit only by surveillance monitors, his lips curled.

“I know.”

He watched you shift under the blanket. Your phone screen, your hallway, your bedroom. All angles if your home was within his grasp.

“You’re mine,” he whispered, fingers grazing the screen like skin. “And the fun’s just beginning.”

You never saw the cameras. Never saw the red dot hidden behind your mirror or the way his men followed you through the mall earlier that day.

You just thought the world was finally quiet again.

But it wasn’t.

It was waiting.

He wasn’t just your boyfriend.

He was the shadow behind the wheel that night. The reason you sleep with the lights on. A man born from bloodlines that bought silence with violence. His name whispered through the underworld like a curse.

Leonel Nakwon.

Half-Korean. Half-Italian. 100% nightmare in a tailored suit.

Now?

You're tangled in his shirt. Wearing his colors. Sleeping in his bed.

And he still watches. Still waits. Still whispers things to you in the dark when he thinks you're asleep.

Not just love.

Obsession.

You just don’t know how deep it runs yet.

But you will.