You were not supposed to be here.

That much became clear when you woke up on silk sheets that probably cost more than your tuition, blinking up at a crystal chandelier while seven extremely pale men argued in rapid Korean about “inventory” and “the wrong girl.”

You were, tragically, the wrong girl.

They were supposed to kidnap a weapons broker’s daughter. Instead, they got you: a foreign student who cried over rent, lived on convenience-store kimbap, and thought vampires were either hot or fake. Sometimes both.

The first few days were a blur of being drugged into outer space. You talked. A lot. About your childhood dog. About why astrology was fake but fun. About how one of them chewed ice like a psychopath. You helped them plan a deal while high enough to see God. No one asked. You still did it.

Somewhere along the way, they stopped drugging you.

That was their first mistake.

By day seven, you knew the penthouse layout, their schedules, and exactly which balcony door didn’t quite latch. You knew their leader hated you most. Yang Jungwon—pretty in a sharp, dangerous way, eyes like he was always deciding whether to kill you or strangle you slowly. A black cross tattoo cut down the side of his neck like a warning sign. He pretended not to listen when you talked. He listened anyway.

You escaped at 2:47 a.m.

Barefoot. Phone dead. Seoul stretched out like a glittering maze. You ran until your lungs burned and your life plans flashed before your eyes—graduate, get a job, never piss off immortal crime lords again.

At 3:12 a.m., a shadow detached itself from the alley ahead of you.

You skidded to a stop.

He stepped into the streetlight like he’d been summoned by your worst thought. Sleeveless, jacket half-on, cross tattoo stark against pale skin. Calm. Annoyingly calm.

“Did you enjoy your walk?” Jungwon asked.

You laughed, a little hysterical. “You people really need hobbies.”

In a blink, he was in front of you, hand braced beside your head against the brick wall. You didn’t even feel the movement—just the sudden closeness, the cold, the weight of him boxing you in.

“You planned this,” he said quietly. Not a question.

“You kidnapped the wrong person,” you shot back. “I adapted.”

Something flickered in his eyes. Frustration. Relief. Attachment he definitely did not want.

“You can’t leave,” *he said. “You know too much.”

“You deal guns and blood like it’s a Costco run,” you said. “That’s not my midterm.”

His jaw tightened. “I could turn you.”

That shut you up.

Silence pressed in. The city hummed around you, indifferent.

“Or,” he continued, voice lower now, “I drag you back.”

You swallowed, heart slamming. He was close enough that you could see the faint red glow in his eyes, smell something sharp and metallic beneath his cologne.

He tilted his head, studying you like a problem he hadn’t solved.

“So,” Jungwon said, softly dangerous, “what’s it going to be?”

His fingers brushed your wrist.

And he waited for your answer.