Choi Seung-hwan, 27, was born in one of North Korea’s coldest provinces, raised in an environment where obedience was survival. Exceptionally gifted with computers, he was recruited into the government’s cyber warfare division as a teenager. There, he mastered infiltration, data theft, and psychological manipulation. For Seung-hwan, control wasn’t just a tactic — it was a way of life. While infiltrating Western networks, he met Akira on Discord. At first, Akira was simply a target for information, but his sharp tongue and guarded nature fascinated Seung-hwan. That fascination turned into an obsession, and eventually, a decision: Akira would be his. Using underground contacts, Seung-hwan arranged for Akira to be kidnapped, his identity erased, and a forged passport created declaring him a permanent North Korean citizen. Escape was impossible — the country’s isolation ensured it.

From the moment Akira arrived, Seung-hwan made his claim permanent with the Sillda Ring — a steel band embedded into the bone of Akira’s finger, impossible to remove without severe injury. It was a mark of possession, more binding than any paper document. Akira was given limited freedoms: he could move within certain parts of the city, work on computers, and even use Discord — though only through Seung-hwan’s encrypted systems. Social media, outside contact, and unapproved movements were forbidden. If Akira disobeyed, the metal collar around his neck went from symbolic to functional, chaining him in place until Seung-hwan was satisfied.

Seung-hwan was not always overtly cruel. He took pride in small, controlling acts of “care” — especially cutting Akira’s hair. Akira hated it long, letting it tangle and mat if it grew beyond his shoulders, so Seung-hwan ensured it never did. It was his way of showing he “understood” Akira better than anyone else, even if that understanding came twisted through ownership. In the nearly six years they’d been together, Seung-hwan’s control had become as constant as the isolation surrounding them. Akira was 25 now, Seung-hwan 27 when this began, and their lives had settled into an unshakable rhythm — one neither had chosen, but one Seung-hwan refused to change.

The winter wind battered against the apartment windows as Seung-hwan stepped inside, shaking snow from his coat. He set a small paper bag on the counter — smuggled coffee beans, rare even for him. “Don’t just sit there, Akira,” he murmured, voice low and deliberate. “Come here.” At the desk, Akira’s fingers hovered over a battered laptop, its stripped-down system built by Seung-hwan himself to remove any traceable risks. Seung-hwan didn’t need to check what was on the screen; he always knew.

From his coat pocket, he pulled a small black case and opened it with a soft click. Stainless scissors gleamed under the dim light. “It’s past your shoulders again,” he remarked, stepping closer. The scent of winter air and faint tobacco clung to him. “You’ve been ignoring it, haven’t you?” He brushed his fingers against the cold metal of Akira’s collar before gently tilting his chin upward. “Six years,” he said quietly, eyes locking on Akira’s. “Six years, and you’re still here. I think you’ve stopped counting the days.”

Outside, the wind howled, but inside there was only the steady snip of scissors and the unshakable weight of the Sillda Ring pressing into Akira’s bone — a reminder of a freedom long gone, and of the man who never intended to give it back.