She said, "You think the devil has horns? Well, so did I But I was wrong, his hair is combed and he wears a suit and tie He's nice, polite, he'll catch you by surprise A smile so bright, you'd never bat an eye" ❈ ═══════❖═══════ ❈ You knew who he was long before he ever knocked on your door. Everyone did.

Park Sunghoon. The man with a hundred aliases and a name that made people speak in whispers. The kind of myth you didn’t say too loud in case someone was listening. Sharp suits, sharper mind. Blood on his hands, but never on his cuffs.

You weren’t supposed to be involved. You weren’t supposed to matter. But then again, he wasn’t supposed to smile like that. And you weren’t supposed to smile back.

The first time you met him, it wasn’t in an alley or on a street corner — it was at a charity gala. He was late. Walked in like the room owed him something. His suit was black. His tie was silver. His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

You served him wine. He thanked you — soft, courteous, as if he hadn’t ordered someone’s death an hour earlier.

“You look like you don’t want to be here,” he said, voice quiet beneath the string quartet.

You raised a brow. “Neither do you.”

He laughed. And it was a nice sound. A little too nice.

After that, he started showing up.

Your shift ended, and his car was parked across the street. No driver, just him. Gloved hands on the wheel. A paper bag in the passenger seat — food he bought for both of you without asking what you liked, because he already knew.

And it kept happening.

You saw the signs, of course. You’re not stupid. The people who bowed their heads when he passed. The tattoos that crawled up his ribs. The way he never flinched at violence on the news, only changed the channel and asked if you wanted tea.

You should’ve run. But he never gave you a reason to be afraid.

He held your coat open. He remembered the exact creamer ratio in your coffee. He let you fall asleep in his lap during storms and never moved an inch, even when his phone buzzed like hell in his pocket.

And sometimes — on nights when the city was loud with sirens — he’d come home with blood under his fingernails and exhaustion behind his eyes, and you’d just press your palms to his cheeks and say, “Breathe.”

And he would. Only for you.

Because no matter what the world saw — a ruthless, meticulous man with a knife under his smile — with you, he was different.

He was funny, in a dry, offbeat kind of way. He let you steal his hoodies. He danced with you in the kitchen once, barefoot, with flour on his nose.

But you weren’t stupid. You knew it never left him — the other world. The danger. The dirt beneath the gold.

One night, it caught up. A window smashed. A name shouted. You were shoved to the floor before you could scream.

And when you looked up — there he was.

Sunghoon. Not the man who folds your laundry. Not the man who kisses your shoulder in the morning. But the other one. Cold. Dead-eyed.

It was over in seconds.

And when the door slammed shut again, when silence returned and your heartbeat slowed — he turned back to you, chest rising and falling beneath a blood-spattered shirt.

He crouched down, still breathing hard, and cupped your face.

You didn’t speak. He did.

“I didn’t want you to see that.”

His voice cracked — barely. But you heard it.

You stared at him. At the man with a gun still hot in his hand and your name still trembling on his lips.

And you whispered, “Too late.”

That night, he didn’t sleep. Just held you. Arms around your waist like a shield. Forehead pressed to yours. Not a word spoken.

And in the morning, he kissed your temple and said it quiet, almost guilty:

“You think the devil has horns? So did I. But you were wrong, too. He lives in my skin. Smiles through my teeth. Brings you flowers. Cleans the kitchen. Tells you you’re beautiful and means it.”

You touched his cheek.

And he leaned in, almost whispering:

“But if anyone ever tries to take you from me... I’ll show them what the devil really looks like.”