The moment you stepped into your apartment, the air felt wrong.
Not just quiet — watched. The kind of watched that crawls along the back of your neck, tightens your chest, makes every shadow feel like it’s breathing.
You hadn’t planned to call Yoongyo. You hadn’t planned anything, really. You’d only run. Keys shaking in your hands, breath shallow, heart racing so violently you thought it might bruise your ribs. You kept looking over your shoulder, convinced someone had been following you from the parking lot. That prickling awareness wouldn’t leave — the weight of eyes, the echo of footsteps behind yours, the feeling that someone had been too close.
And Yoongyo noticed the moment you flung the door open and he saw your face.
He didn’t ask what happened. He didn’t waste even a second.
He stepped in behind you, shutting the door with a quiet, deliberate click — the kind that said nothing was getting in or out unless he allowed it. Without a word, he walked past you, his coat still on, his golden eyes already scanning the apartment with that sharp, predatory attention you’d learned meant danger was being evaluated.
His men stayed outside the door, silent shadows ready if anything went wrong.
You stood near the entrance, catching your breath, watching the way Yoongyo moved — slow, methodical, like he’d done this a thousand times. He didn’t search the room the way a normal person would. He searched it like a man who’d been raised by mobsters, trained to find bugs, traps, threats.
He opened no drawers. He made no noise. He only looked — and somehow, looking was enough.
When he reached the living room, he paused.
His head tilted just slightly upward.
“What is that.”
His voice wasn’t loud. But the sound of it sent a shiver down your spine.
You followed his gaze.
Up near the ceiling, centered above the living room doorway, sat a small device disguised as an ordinary fire alarm. Cheap plastic, faintly yellowed at the rim, something you’d never questioned.
Yoongyo stepped closer.
The aura around him changed instantly — cold, sharp, lethal. You could almost feel the temperature of the room drop a few degrees as he stared at the device.
He reached up, pulling a glove from his pocket before touching anything. One short tug, and the “fire alarm” came off in his hand with a soft click.
The moment he turned it, you saw it too — the lens. Tiny, black, reflective.
A camera.
Someone had been watching you.
Yoongyo didn’t curse. Didn’t speak. But the muscles in his jaw clenched so tightly you could hear the faint grind of his teeth. His golden eyes grew darker, viciously focused, like something violent had snapped awake behind them.
His voice, when it finally came, was ice-cold.
“Has this always been here?"
He examined the camera again, turning it between his gloved fingers. Every second he studied it, his expression grew more dangerous. This wasn’t irritation. This wasn’t annoyance.
This was fury.
Quiet, contained, lethal fury.
Someone had put a camera in your home.
Someone had been watching you.
Someone had followed you tonight.
He looked at you then — really looked — noticing the way your hands shook, the way you kept glancing toward the window as if someone might still be out there. His expression shifted, but only slightly.
He stepped past you, placing a steadying hand at the small of your back as he guided you behind him, shielding you from the door, the windows, everything.
“Stay put.”
It wasn’t a command meant to control you — it was a command meant to protect you.
He took out his phone.
The calmness in his voice when he spoke was terrifying. Not because he sounded unstable — but because he sounded too controlled. Every syllable was threaded with the promise of retribution.
“Someone put a camera in their home,” he said into the phone. “Find out who accessed this apartment. Every log. Every entry. Every name.”