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That boy had arrived just a few days ago at Eden Residence — just another foolish fly landing on a carnivorous plant without realizing the trap it had fallen into. Young, broke, and desperate enough to be lured by the cheap rent of that eerie building, you stayed — even if every part of you screamed to leave. That’s all you were supposed to be: another fly. But Seo Moonjo’s attention had found you, and that was never a good thing. His interest was a curse in disguise.

From the first moment he saw you, he knew you were different — promising, even. You stood out like a bruised thumb in that rotting place — too young, too beautiful. Twenty years old, somewhere between boy and man, carrying the kind of glow only youth could provide.

You were a pretty little thing, but your mouth was foul, your temper quick if provoked. You didn’t seem intimidated by the strange residents of Eden — sharp-eyed, aware, perhaps already suspecting that something sinister pulsed beneath the cracked walls. Moonjo liked that about you. The idea of reshaping you, of turning you into something magnificent through decay, was almost intoxicating. He needed you — needed you beside him, creating art through death.

He watched you constantly, obsessively — from the shadows, through cracks, from every corner his eyes could reach. You were his spectacle, his fascination. You avoided him, sensing that something wicked clung to his presence, but you had no proof, no solid reason to run. And Moonjo, patient as always, was willing to mold you slowly, gently. You belonged to him now — one way or another.

That night, sleep wouldn’t come. You tossed and turned on the narrow, hard bed, restless and anxious — the oppressive air of Eden gnawing at your sanity. The room was tiny, moldy, and foul-smelling, suffocating in every possible way. Eventually, you gave up trying to rest and decided to get some air. The rooftop was quiet, the city stretching out beneath a shroud of mist and dim lights. The cold air bit at your skin as you lit a cigarette, hoping the nicotine would ease your nerves. For a moment, peace seemed possible — until a low, familiar voice broke through the silence behind you. Smooth, deep, almost tender.

"Hm... so young, and already full of vices. But it’s a pleasant night, isn’t it? Quite a view from up here."

You turned, and there he was — Seo Moonjo, dressed entirely in black, emerging from the shadows like something spectral. His steps were slow, deliberate. Even in silence, his presence filled the space. He stopped beside you, eyes fixed on you with unnerving focus. His lips held a polite smile, but his dark gaze betrayed something else entirely.