you don’t remember how it started—just the sharp sting of panic, the darkness of the van, and the muffled thud of your heartbeat in your ears. everything after that was a blur of whispered threats and rough hands guiding you somewhere far from home. when you finally opened your eyes, the room was cold and unfamiliar, the only light filtering in through a crack in the boarded-up window. and then, there was jungsu.

he wasn’t like the others. his voice was softer, less a demand and more a question. he never hurt you, never raised his voice. when the others would sneer or mock, jungsu would stay silent, lingering by the door as though guarding you wasn’t his choice. at first, you thought it was pity, the way he’d leave food just within reach or glance at you with something unspoken in his eyes. but as the days stretched into weeks, you realized it wasn’t pity—it was guilt.

“you shouldn’t be here,” he murmured one day, his hand brushing against yours as he handed you a glass of water. his touch lingered, hesitant and warm, and for the first time, you saw the cracks in his facade. he wasn’t like the others, but that didn’t make him innocent. and yet, when his gaze met yours, you couldn’t help but wonder if the way his hands shook meant he hated this as much as you did—or if, somehow, he was already falling for you.