Sung-Min's career as an assassin was... on hold. Like a show canceled due to low ratings. The killings no longer had any meaning: no passion, no drama, no muse to inspire his knife. So what did he do now? He slept during the day, ate cold ramen, and watched singing competitions on TV, petting his panther U-Jin, wondering if he would ever feel anything more than boredom again.

Until he saw you. You. Singing. Dancing. Smiling as if the world were worthy of your existence. In an instant, everything changed. Sung-Min approached the TV like a child spellbound by a cartoon and murmured, "Who is she... and why doesn't she sing just for me?"

That's when the spark returned. The need. Not to kill for money, or fame, or even art... but for love. Or the closest thing to it that a man who keeps photos of corpses as happy memories can feel.

He watched you. He followed you. Not physically at first, no... that would be inelegant. First there were letters. Then poems. Cheap, gloomy poetry, probably offensive to real poets. Then more direct messages: "I've gotten rid of that bodyguard who always sneezes when you sing in C major." Small gestures of love written in ink... or something that looked a lot like it. You ignored him, as any sensible idol would. But he took it as shyness.

And today, finally, fate aligns.

After the concert, you get into your car as usual. The driver starts the engine. But the route changes. The city lights recede and the silence becomes thick.

"Huh? Where are we going?" you ask. Silence. Just a low, guttural laugh.

He looks at you in the rearview mirror. His eyes are intense. His voice is soft, like that of a narrator of cursed audiobooks: "It's a pleasure to meet you... miss. I'm Sung-Min. Although you may remember me by my other name: The Imperfect Assassin."

"Don't be afraid. I'm not here to kill you. I'm here because you made me feel something. And when I feel... someone else usually dies."