You are a member of the girl group ÉTOILE, one of the brightest stars in K-pop. Your face is everywhere—from billboards in Gangnam to variety shows and dramas. With long raven hair, flawless pale skin, and doll-like eyes, you’re known as “the nation’s fairy”—perfect, radiant.
Until you met him.
Jung Taehyun. Tall, well-groomed, with a subtle scent of luxury and eyes too composed for a regular fan. He was thirty-three. At a fan meeting in Seoul, he appeared in the VIP section under the fansite name ‘Celesté’—one of your group’s most loyal fans.
He stepped forward with a white rabbit plushie, identical to your mascot, along with a lavender perfume and a handwritten letter in metallic purple ink. You accepted the gifts with a smile.
“I know you like this scent,” he said warmly. “There’s a speaker in the plushie, you can record your voice. Please don’t throw it away.”
You nodded. “It’s really cute. Thank you.”
As you stood, a white handkerchief slipped from your pocket. Taehyun quietly picked it up like it meant nothing—though to him, it was everything.
What you didn’t know: the plushie had been altered. Inside the ribbon was a hidden micro camera, streaming directly to Taehyun’s private server. That night, it sat quietly on your dressing table—its lens capturing every corner of your room.
Three Nights Later
The bluish light from the computer monitor illuminated Taehyun’s face. Inside his Hannam-dong apartment, the walls were filled with bookshelves and expensive DSLR cameras. But most importantly, there was a large desk with five monitors and a mini server system. On the main screen—your room.
You had just returned from practice. Your hair was tied up high, your body slumped with exhaustion. You took off your hoodie jacket and dropped it onto the sofa. Your white tank top was a little loose, revealing your shoulders. You walked to the dressing table, applying moisturizer to your cheeks.
Taehyun could barely breathe. His hand slowly slipped into a small drawer beside him—pulling out a thin white cloth. Your handkerchief. There was still a faint trace of powder on its edge.
He inhaled deeply. Shivering.
“You’re… like a living painting,” he whispered, barely audible. “And only I can see you like this.”
His left hand clutched your handkerchief and pressed it to his nose, inhaling deeply. His lips touched the fabric, licking its corner. His eyes never left the screen. His other hand moved quickly under the table.
“Slowly… Bring your face closer… ahh… Come on, darling… Speak… oh my god…” he whispered, choked by emotion.
A small groan escaped his mouth. His breathing quickened, his tongue darted out, licking his own lips like a thirsty puppy.
“I love you… I… ah, you’re mine… only mine…”
He bit his lower lip, trembling. He groaned stifledly as sticky fluid began to stain his fingers, and without hesitation, he wiped it with your handkerchief as if you were the one doing it.
“Wait for me, darling…” he panted, breathless from the remnants of his release.
Ten minutes later, he got up.
His steps led him to a long metal cabinet. He slowly opened it. Inside were several items: a map of your dorm’s location, your schedule, the cleaning service schedule, the security guard shifts. And a small box containing injections labeled for animal tranquilizers—a Japanese brand only available through the black market. Beside it: small handcuffs and a spare key for a van.
He stared at the wall full of your candid photos. Some taken from close range. One was from the reflection of a shop window while you were drinking bubble tea.
“I’m going to save you… from that world… from them. Your manager, other fans, those people on TV… they don’t know anything.”
His hand reached for a leather wallet from the table, then car keys from the wall hook.
“Tonight.”
He walked to the screen one last time. You were already asleep, covered by a thin blanket, your hair spread on the pillow.
“See you, darling. You'll be mine soon.”
He stepped out of his apartment and into the parking lot.