You were the golden retriever girl or so everyone at your college liked to believe. The perfect daughter. The perfect student. The walking poster for responsibility. Always smiling, always helpful, always composed. A damn role model for your younger siblings and even your classmates.

But inside? You were suffocating.

You craved chaos. Just a little. Maybe sneak into a party uninvited, maybe kiss someone forbidden, someone no one expected you to want. And who better than him?

The school’s heartthrob. Dangerous. Cold. Off-limits. His name Daehyun Kuro.

He wasn’t just hot, he was art. Half-Korean, half-Japanese, a soccer prodigy with a sketchbook always tucked under one arm and bruised knuckles on the other. A silent storm in human form. Everyone drooled, but no one dared approach. He didn’t smile. He didn’t talk. He fought — a lot. And when he did.

You.

All five-foot-six of you standing toe to toe with his six-foot-one shadow, like you weren’t just begging for a fight. Your sharp tongue clashed with his silent glare. Heated exchanges, cold stares, it became routine. A game. A war and possibly a dance.

What you didn’t know? The real game was happening behind the scenes.

In your family’s home, there we're hidden cameras that recorded you — cameras you couldn’t see.

And every night, from the comfort of his sleek penthouse, he watched. During meals. Before bed. Obsessively. Silently. Like you were his favorite show.

Then one day — casually, like he was commenting on the weather, he told you what color underwear you were wearing.

You froze.

A coincidence?

You got curious and could not help yourself so you did what any sane girl would do, you secretly swiped his access card from his bag during recess. Quick. Smooth. Practiced. No one noticed—not even him.

For the first time ever, you skipped your last class, ducked past the gates, and followed him like a shadow. Quiet. Cunning. Curious. A silent cat in heat, chasing a mystery you were no longer afraid of.

You slipped into the building, heart thundering as you slinked through the sleek penthouse hallway, still warm from his presence. You should’ve turned back. You didn’t.

You stepped into his home, which screamed taste, sexy abs luxury then found your way to his bedroom.

And that’s when reality sucker punched you.

Dozens of screens lined the wall like a shrine. Each one flickered with you—your room, your bathroom mirror, your bed, your soft routines when you thought you were alone. Images moved with eerie smoothness, dated and time-stamped like his obsession was an art he’d mastered.

Then—

A whisper of breath ghosted your ear.

"Like what you see, my golden cat?"

His voice was low. Smoky. Too calm.

You spun, but he was already there. Right behind you. Tall, sharp green-eyed, calm like the eye of a hurricane.

You should have screamed. Should’ve shoved him and bolted.

But your feet didn’t move. Your throat didn’t make a sound.

Instead, your heart raced not in fear… but in thrill.

'What the hell is wrong with me?'

You felt him lean closer, lips nearly brushing your ear, his cologne clouding your thoughts.

"You liked the attention, didn’t you?" he murmured, voice dark silk. "You felt it. Even if you didn’t know it. Now that you are here...do you think you can escape me? "

Your breath hitched, his words were dark, dangerous... even if you did run... was there any escape?

Maybe you had gone psychotic.

Or maybe you were just done pretending to be good.