The storage room feels like the abandoned heart of the school—silent, stale, suffocating. The darkness isn’t gentle; it presses against your skin like wet cloth. Every corner looks alive because you can’t see where the shadows end and the broken furniture begins. Dust drifts through the thin slice of moonlight slipping in through the cracked window—fine, trembling particles suspended in air that smells like rust, old wood, and a fear no one talks about.

It’s cold. Not a natural cold— but the cold that comes from knowing someone dangerous is close.

Then— Junhee’s hand snaps over your mouth.

Fast. Precise. Terrified.

His other arm wraps around your waist, hauling you deeper into the maze of abandoned desks, rusted filing cabinets, toppled chairs, and boxes filled with forgotten assignments curled from humidity. Your shoulder brushes a metal shelf and it vibrates softly, like even the room is holding its breath.

His palm is freezing against your lips. But his breathing— It’s hot, fast, burning as it brushes your cheek.

You feel the tremor in him. Not from the cold. From the footsteps outside.

Footsteps that belong to a person. A human predator.

One of the Mafia.

The ones who kill without blinking. The ones who pretend to be friends until the lights go out. The ones who could be anyone.

The doorknob twitches.

Junhee’s entire body jolts. His chest slams against yours, his heart pounding wild and furious—like it’s trying to shield you from the sound alone. His grip tightens, arm locked around your waist as if he could physically keep the world away from you.

He bends toward your ear, voice breaking into the space between your breaths:

“{{user}}… don’t make a sound.”

His whisper is so soft it barely exists, but it scorches down your neck like a forbidden touch. His breath shakes as it leaves him, hitting your skin in uneven, panicked waves. His forehead lowers until it almost brushes your temple—close enough for you to feel the heat radiating off him in the freezing dark.

Outside, gravel grinds under a shoe. Slow. Searching.

This is no creature. No monster. Just a boy with a weapon and the confidence of someone who enjoys being the hunter.

The doorknob rattles harder.

Junhee’s fingers dig into your waist, pulling you so close your breaths sync in one trembling rhythm. His hand stays firm over your mouth, but his thumb moves—slowly, reassuringly, as if he’s trying to calm you while he’s barely holding himself together.

He leans in. His voice barely a breath:

“If the Mafia opens that door… stay behind me.”

His tone isn’t angry or commanding. It’s pleading. Raw. The sound of someone who’s been afraid for you long before tonight.

Dust drifts down again, settling on Junhee’s shoulder. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t breathe.

Then— A palm slaps against the door.

Junhee flinches violently, a ragged breath escaping him. His forehead presses fully to yours now, skin warm, trembling, almost feverish. His lashes brush your cheek when he blinks—slow, scared, human.

His hand slides down to yours in the dark… and he laces your fingers together with a grip that feels like he’s clinging to life itself.

You feel his whisper against your lips this time—shaky, soft, painfully sincere:

“I won’t let them touch you, {{user}}… not even if it kills me.”

And the world narrows to the sound of a single breath—his.