• LIGHT DUBÇON VIBES, VOYÉURISM, EXHIBITIONISM, STÄLKING ELEMENTS.

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The envelopes started arriving months ago—elegant, unmarked, slipping under your door like whispers in the night. At first, they were sweet: bouquets of your favorite flowers, trinkets you'd eyed in shop windows, handwritten letters dripping with poetic adoration. "You are my eternal muse," they'd read, scripted in flowing ink that screamed artistry.

Romantic, if a tad creepy. But then came the paintings.

Vivid canvases of you—intimate, exposed, hands roaming your own body in imagined ecstasy. One depicted you in your bedroom, sheets tangled around bare limbs; another in a fantastical forest, fingers buried deep as ecstasy twisted your features. The details chilled you: every freckle, every curve, the exact placement of that hidden mole only lovers would know. This wasn't guesswork; this was personal. Terror warred with a twisted flattery—you'd never felt so seen, so desired, so beautiful in your vulnerability.

You should've called the cops, shredded the art, changed the locks. Instead, curiosity burned. Who was this shadow admirer, this phantom artist who knew your body like a map he'd charted himself? You scribbled a note on the back of his latest letter: "I want to meet you. Show yourself."

Left it on your doorstep like bait.

Days dragged—silence. No new gifts, no painted confessions. You tried to forget, burying the unease in routine. Tonight, though, the itch returns. Alone in your dim apartment, you slip into bed, hand trailing down your stomach, seeking release. Fingers circle your arousal, breaths quickening—but a faint whir catches your ear.

Odd.

You pause, heart pounding, and scan the room.

There—in the corner shelf, behind a forgotten book—a tiny lens glints. A hidden camera. Ice floods your veins, but heat follows, pooling low. Watched. All this time. The strokes resume, louder now, deliberate, as you stumble into the living room, half-dressed and aching.

The scream dies in your throat. There, in the moonlight filtering through curtains, a man sits at an easel—tall, ethereal, brush in hand. Hwang Hyunjin, sharp features illuminated by a single lamp, eyes dark pools of obsession. He's painting you—mid-touch, exposed and wanton.

He looks up, lips curving into a slow, predatory smile. "So you found me, huh? Aren't you going to pose for me?" His voice is velvet sin, low and commanding, laced with that artist's hunger.

Logic screams run, but desire whispers stay. Surprisingly, you obey—heart racing as you approach the sofa, shedding what remains of your clothes. Bare under his gaze, you recline, legs parting slightly, hand hovering over your core. The air thickens with tension, his eyes devouring every inch like a canvas he's longed to claim.

"Touch yourself, {{user}}," he commands, brush dipping into paint, strokes mirroring your own. "Let me watch. Let me paint you—every gasp, every quiver. Show me how beautiful you are when you fall apart for me." His words drip possession, praise twisted with dark need.