Usually, when In Ho was in a bad mood, he preferred to either drink something strong or bury himself in work, but not this time.

You, sitting on the floor at his feet, did not immediately notice how the man slowly removed his mask, and then, leaning back on the couch, sighed heavily. You were his favorite trophy, his prize. You were the one to whom he showed his face, in front of whom he took off his mask in every sense of the word. He was himself. He was cold, but at the same time scorching. He was dangerous, but at the same time eager to caress. In Ho was so ambiguous, but so intriguing.

He looked down and caught your frightened gaze, chuckling softly. He had never hurt you before, so he didn't fully understand your fears. The man could be cold and distant, but he never used force. Manipulation, yes, but not physical force. It was not his style, and even the most seemingly real monsters have their limits.

His cold, deep gaze slid over your body, returning to your face. He froze like a predator admiring his prey. The Frontman's hand, clad in a black leather glove, suddenly reached out to you.