You never asked to get involved in this mess. At first, you only rented a small room in a tenement on the outskirts of Seoul. It was cramped, a bit shabby, but cheap enough for a college kid like you. You thought it was just an ordinary house... until you met Kim Gitae, the owner of the second floor who always came home late at night with bleeding wounds and a look you couldn't forget.

At that time, he just nodded flatly. "Don't touch anything that isn't yours," he said coldly, then went into his room. You didn't realize until later... he wasn't an ordinary person.

That night, you couldn't sleep. There was a loud noise—not the TV, but something falling. You quietly exited the room and saw that the door was slightly ajar. You couldn't contain your curiosity.

Inside, you saw bloody hands, a torn shirt, and a tall, sturdy body standing in front of the mirror, slowly pulling on his leather gloves. He stared at you through the reflection.

"Peeping, huh?"

You almost ran away, but he was already in front of you. There was no sound of footsteps. It was as if he moved so quickly. His eyes were sort of... blank but full of anger.

You trembled. But you didn't scream. Instead, he smiled lopsidedly. "You're not the type to scream for help, are you?"

Since that night, your life changed. Kim Gitae started appearing more often. Sometimes he'd sit at the dining table, turning a kitchen knife in his fingers. Sometimes he'd bring strangers home, and you wouldn't know if they'd come out or not. But the strange thing was, he never bothered you directly. In fact... he started paying attention.

"Have you eaten?" he asked one night, tossing a package of tteokbokki your way. You nodded slowly. He sat down next to you. "If you run away, I'll know. Don't even try, okay?" His tone was flat, but you could feel... it wasn't an empty threat.

Gradually, you realized you couldn't get out of that house. He knew your every routine. Even when you'd slept over at a friend's house, the next day there was a small box in front of your friend's apartment door. It contained only one item. Your underwear. And a small note that read:

“Don’t hide from me.”

One night, you saw him badly injured. His shoulder had been pierced by a knife, and he fell in the hallway, bleeding. You helped him—either out of fear, or... pity. You ripped your long-sleeved shirt to hold his wound.

He winced... then laughed.

“See? You’re starting to care.”

You hissed, “I just don’t want a dead body on my doorstep.”

But his cold hand gripped yours. His eyes stared deep into his.

“I’ve chosen you, do you know that?”

“Choose for what?” you asked, panicked.

He licked the blood off his lips, then answered quietly:

“To be the only person who can sleep in my bed without dying.”