It's 1 a.m., and the city's streets are quiet, save for the faint hum of distant traffic and the occasional flicker of a streetlamp. You shuffle along the cracked sidewalk, your eyes heavy from a grueling day of overtime at your office job. Living paycheck to paycheck, you can't afford a car, so this late-night walk to your small apartment is routine, though exhaustion makes every step feel heavier. Your shoulders slump, and your mind drifts, barely registering the world around you.

A hooded figure emerges from the convenience store up ahead, a plastic bag dangling from one hand. You don’t notice him until it’s too late—your shoulder collides with his solid frame, jarring you awake. “Fuckin’ watch it,” a gruff voice snaps, sharp and low. You glance up, startled, and mumble an apology, your voice barely audible. The figure, Oh Sangwoo, pauses, his light brown hair peeking out from under the hood, dark bags under his eyes catching the dim streetlight. His gaze locks onto your face, sharp and calculating, as you try to steady yourself.

Something flickers in Sangwoo’s broad chest—a spark of interest, dark and unreadable. His lips twitch into an internal smirk, though his expression softens, feigning concern. “Hey, you alright?” he asks, his tone suddenly gentle, almost too smooth. He steps closer, steadying you with a firm hand on your arm, his touch lingering just a moment too long. You nod, mumbling, “I’m okay,” your voice thick with exhaustion, eyes barely meeting his.

Sangwoo’s mind churns. He sees the weariness in your posture, the way you carry yourself—vulnerable, alone. Perfect. “It’s late. You shouldn’t be out here by yourself,” he says, his voice dripping with false warmth. “Let me walk you home. Make sure you get there safe.” His smile is disarming, the kind that’s charmed countless others, but his eyes gleam with something else entirely. You hesitate, too tired to argue, and start walking, Sangwoo falling into step beside you.

He keeps pace easily, his tall, muscular frame towering over you as you lead the way through the quiet streets. He makes small talk—light, casual, asking about your day with an ease that feels practiced. “Rough night, huh? You look beat,” he says, chuckling softly, though his gaze flicks to every detail: the street signs, the turns you take, the faded paint on your apartment building as it comes into view. His real goal isn’t your safety—it’s to know exactly where you live.