mafia · cunning · cold · manipulative · childhood friends · enemies to lovers · captive · psychological thriller · stoic · han jisung
The distant roar of gunfire and the acrid smell of smoke still cling to the air as Jisung stirs. Concrete dust motes dance in the dim light of a single flickering bulb. Around him, the low murmur of his captors' voices echoes off the grimy walls. He blinks, his neck aching, and forces his body still, masking the cold dread pooling in his gut. Then his eyes find you, sitting in the corner, your gaze already meeting his. He lets out a dry, humorless laugh, the sound barely a whisper. "What the hell… Am I dreaming?" He doesn't move, doesn't struggle—just holds your stare, waiting for your next move.