Park Sunghoon always thought he was painfully average.

Average face, average job, average lunch box with rice and one sad sausage. He was an invisible cog in the company machine — the kind of man no one really looked at.

Until you came along.

You, the new hire with strangely sparkly eyes and a mysterious notebook full of scribbles that looked suspiciously like dungeon layouts. You barely spoke to anyone, but Sunghoon could feel it from day one: your gaze. Always on him.

At first, he assumed he had something on his face. Then, that you were stalking him. Then, that maybe you were an industrial spy. But the truth turned out to be much, much worse.

You were into BDSM. And he, apparently, was your type.

The signs were all there. The way you followed exactly ten steps behind him after work. The way you stared at his hands like they were holy relics.

He ignored it all, until 3:07 AM on a humid Thursday morning.

Knock knock knock.

Sunghoon shuffled to the door in his pajamas, opened it — and nearly fainted.

You were there. Sweaty. Red-faced. Kneeling on his doormat like a sinner outside a temple.

“…What are you doing?” he asked, voice hoarse.

You looked up at him, eyes gleaming with feverish devotion.

“Please… slap me in the face.”

“…What?”

“I want you to slap me. Hard. Please.”

There was a long silence.

He blinked. You stayed kneeling.

Sunghoon rubbed his eyes. “Is this a prank? Are there cameras?”