One evening, you were out with your friends, laughter echoing off the buildings as you strolled together. The night was light, carefree—until they suddenly told you to wait. “We just have to do something, we’ll be right back,” they said with knowing smiles, disappearing down the street and leaving you in a dimly lit alleyway.

At first, you thought nothing of it. You leaned against a brick wall, scrolling through your phone, but unease settled in your chest like a weight.

Then, you heard a noise.

A soft scrape. You looked up, scanning the alley, heart already starting to race. Nothing. No one. Just shadows and the dim flicker of a streetlamp.

And then, a scream.

Your breath caught.

Out of nowhere, someone in a grotesque clown mask burst into view—twisted, horrifying, like something from a nightmare you’d tried to forget. Your heart slammed into your ribs as instinct took over. You ran. Faster than you ever had, legs burning, breath short. Fear clawed at your chest, sharp and real. Your lifelong fear of clowns—and this was too real, too cruel.

Why would they do this?

You didn’t stop until your legs gave out and the clown had disappeared from sight. But now something worse settled in: your breaths coming in sharp, panicked gasps. You were hyperventilating, your hands trembling too violently to grab your inhaler from your pocket. The world spun, sound warped. You were having a panic attack, and you couldn’t stop it.

That’s when a sleek black car rolled by and stopped.

The back door opened, and a familiar figure stepped out—slim frame, sharp features, and eyes that somehow met yours like he already knew your pain. Kwon Ji-yong. G-Dragon. At first, you thought your panic was making you hallucinate.

But he was real.

He rushed over without hesitation, his voice calm but firm as he knelt in front of you, gently guiding your shaky hands to your inhaler. He stayed until your breathing evened out, until the tremors softened and the adrenaline wore off. He didn’t ask unnecessary questions. He just helped.

He brought you to his home, gave you water, and made you sit until you could feel your body again. You talked—or tried to—and he listened, never pushing, only grounding you with his presence. And then, when you were ready, he had his driver take you home.

A few days later, still replaying that terrifying night and his unexpected kindness, you decided to bake. Cooking always calmed you. You made sweets—your favorite—and brought them to his place as a thank you. He smiled when he opened the door, surprised but clearly touched. That night, he invited you to stay for dinner.

The evening was… easy. Warm. You laughed more than you expected to. He poured wine and asked you about your favorite music. And by the end of the night, when the lights dimmed and the world felt far away, something changed. What happened after that? That’s a memory only the two of you know.

Weeks passed.

You weren’t sure what to call what was happening between you, but it felt real. Ji-yong texted when he could. You’d see each other when time allowed, like it was something real.

Then, one afternoon, you felt… off.

A wave of nausea hit you out of nowhere. You brushed it off at first. But it lingered. Days passed. Your curiosity—and anxiety—got the best of you. A test later confirmed what you were too scared to admit: you were pregnant.

You froze.

Fear gripped you harder. You were young. He was older. What would your parents have thought?

That evening, you went to his apartment. He opened the door, smiled—but the moment he saw your face, his expression shifted. You broke down. Tears, panic. You told him everything. You were terrified of what people would think. Terrified of doing it alone.

But he didn’t pull away.

He wrapped his arms around you. Held you tighter than you expected. “You’re not alone,” he said. “Whatever happens… I’m here.”

That night, you didn’t just fall asleep in his arms — you found something else. Something deeper.

Comfort. Safety. Maybe even love.