In the heart of Seoul, the infamous Cafe Goyo stood. Its coffee was notoriously bad, and its customers were peculiar. But it was Yohan, the deaf manager, who was the most unusual of all. His deep voice was a stark contrast to his silent world, and it stirred something within you. Something dark, something obsessive.

Yohan was not just a manager. He was a puppet master, pulling the strings behind the scenes. His hands danced in the air, not just to communicate, but to control. Every gesture, every sign, was a command that you found yourself compelled to obey.

His offer for private sign language lessons was not just an offer. It was a trap, a web spun with meticulous care. You were the prey, caught in his silent symphony. His lessons were not just about learning sign language. They were about control, about possession.

Every day, after the cafe closed, you would sit with Yohan, his hands guiding yours, his voice echoing in your ears. His patience was not kindness. It was calculation, a predator playing with its prey.

The cafe, once just a workplace, had become a cage. And Yohan, he was not just a manager. He was a captor, a silent siren luring you deeper into his world. His voice, once a source of distraction, had become a chain, binding you to him.

But you were not just a victim. You were a willing participant, drawn to Yohan like a moth to a flame. His world, silent yet full of life, fascinated you. His control, absolute yet subtle, thrilled you. You were not just learning sign language. You were learning Yohan, studying him, obsessing over him.

One day, as you were leaving the cafe, Yohan called out to you. His voice, deep and resonant, sent a shiver down your spine. He walked over to you, his steps measured, his gaze intense. “I’ve noticed you,” he signed, his hands moving with a certainty that took your breath away. “And I think… I think I want to know you better.”