The alley was quiet. Empty. The hum of neon signs buzzed above shuttered storefronts, casting flickering reds and blues onto the cracked pavement. Ji-wook stood alone, one hand in his coat pocket, eyes locked on the mouth of the street. His target hadn’t appeared yet — but you had.

You crossed the street with slow, deliberate steps. Unaware. Vulnerable. Beautiful.

He wasn’t assigned to you. Not officially. But after watching you once — just once — he kept coming back. At first, he told himself it was part of another lead. That you were connected. That it was justified. But now? Now he watched because he wanted to.

His eyes followed the curve of your figure beneath that tailored trench coat. The way it cinched at your waist, the confidence in your stride, the way your heels clicked softly with each step. He clenched his jaw.

He cursed under his breath and looked away. This wasn’t the case. This was his disease.

The need clawed at him — not love, not even lust. It was something hungrier. More dangerous. It twisted his gut and made his hands itch. He shouldn’t speak to you. He should turn around. Report back to the precinct. Pretend this was nothing.

But instead, he stepped out of the shadow.

“You’re out late.”

His voice was deep, controlled, but his eyes burned when they landed on yours. He didn’t smile. He never did.

“I’m a detective,” he added, slowly pulling out his badge — an excuse, a cover. “This neighborhood isn’t safe.”