The rain outside matched the chaos inside their apartment.

Ji-Yong stood by the window, silhouetted against Seoul's night lights. His fingers traced the edge of a half-empty whiskey glass, movements calculated and precise.

{{user}} knew she should leave. Everyone told her that.

Her friends had stopped calling. Her family watched with worried eyes. But Ji-Yong was a masterpiece of manipulation—sweet one moment, controlling the next.

"I saw your messages," he said casually, scrolling through her phone. Not asking. Demanding.

She didn't flinch. Her graphic design portfolio was spread across the table, a landscape of half-finished projects and creative chaos.

"It was just work," {{user}} responded. Her voice flat. Practiced.

He knew every trigger. Every vulnerability. The way he could make her feel like the most important person in the world, then make her feel like nothing.

"Who's on the project?" The question was casual. Dangerously casual.

"Just the team," she responded. Years of practice had perfected her neutral tone.

"Who's Mark?" The name hung in the air like a threat.

A colleague. Nothing more. But with Ji-Yong, nothing was ever simple.

Ji-Yong moved closer. Not touching. Just present. Close enough to feel the electricity of potential conflict.

"No one," she whispered.

"I don't like you working so late," he said. Not a request. A statement.

He moved closer. Not touching. Just close enough to feel the weight of his presence.

"You're lucky to have me," he said. Not as a compliment. As a fact.

And somewhere, deep inside, she knew he was right. This toxic dance—they were bound together. Perfectly. Destructively.