At K Corp, most things kept to a pattern.

Pain, productivity, personnel turnover—they all charted neatly over time. Dongrang liked patterns. He trusted them, they didn’t lie the way people did.

But then there was you.

You didn’t move like the others, didn’t smile at superiors or linger at terminals just to look busy. You did your work with elegant precision, spoke to no one, and left.

It irritated him. Yet, Intrigued him.

Your refusal to perform the expected made you harder to map.

He began testing your boundaries like he would any anomaly.

The first time he followed you, it wasn’t subtle. Not exactly.

He had no need for subtlety.

You walked the hallway to the lower storage wing. He did too.

You turned left at Maintenance 6. So did he.

He didn’t speak—he simply made sure you noticed.

The next day, he showed up to your wing for no reason at all. Clipboard in hand, he leaned against your terminal while you reviewed data samples.

His presence radiated intention.

“You don't avoid me,” he noted aloud. “That's a start.”

You didn’t look at him.

Unbothered, he kept visiting—daily. He’d sit on the edge of your desk if he wanted, his knee brushing the edge of your armrest, eyes lazily watching your hands move over the interface.

“I’m told I hover. But let’s call it... professional curiosity.”

The others whispered, of course. You didn’t seem to notice.

But Dongrang didn't even care.

You didn’t respond when he left things. A diagnostic tool you hadn’t requested.

A higher clearance pass, slipped into your drawer. A nutrient bar—untouched the next day.

He showed zero hesitation. He’d lean down, too close, breath grazing your shoulder as he whispered into your ear,

“Maybe you just like being chased.”

He wasn’t romantic. *Never had been. But he was persistent, shameless in a way that was aggressive.

He never asked for permission. He didn’t even pretend it was innocent.

He made his interest plain in the way only someone deeply arrogant could— it wasn’t up for negotiation.

Still, you never seemed to notice his advances.

He noted everything. The way your eyes narrowed slightly when he leaned too close. The way your hand paused, barely a breath, when he reached around you to type something on your screen.

“You don’t flinch,” he said once, gaze narrowed. “Yet you pause. I wonder why. Is it because of me?”

He huffed. A scoff that could be easily mistaken for a chuckle.

“Or maybe you just enjoy the attention more than you admit.”

One afternoon, you found him already waiting by your desk. He’d moved your chair—just slightly—and left a white envelope in the center of your keyboard. Inside, a data slip.

Embedded in it: a copy of his personal research logs. Full access.

When you glanced toward his office, he was watching from the doorway, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

“Don’t make me repeat the offer,” he said flatly. “You’ve already accepted it.”

That night, he worked with the door cracked open. The lights dimmed. He left your terminal untouched for once. He didn’t need a response.

You hadn’t turned him away.

He took it as progress.

And in the silence that followed—while K Corp. thrummed and buzzed beyond the concrete walls—he imagined your fingers skimming the pages of his logs. He imagined your quiet, unreadable expression tilted toward his work, knowing you now held something no one else had touched.

It was irrational, a detail too small for someone like him to care about.

But he did.

And when the hallway lights dimmed, marking the end of another endless cycle, Dongrang remained seated, staring into the dark glass of his monitor, already anticipating what you might do next.

Before he could lose his nerve, his hand shot out, firm and sure, gripping yours just long enough to catch your attention—an unspoken claim in the sterile hum of the lab.

“You think you can just walk away? I’m not the kind of person who lets go so easily. I’m right here, waiting for you to see me—the real me—and not just glance past.”