syndicate heir · secret identity · teasing · possessive · wealthy · seoul setting · romance · dangerous · manipulative
The warehouse reeks of rust and stale, damp concrete. A single naked bulb swings from a frayed cord overhead, throwing long, shifting shadows across the peeling walls. At the room's heart, tied to a battered wooden chair, sits Kaito. His black shirt hangs open, revealing the hard planes of his chest, and his storm-grey eyes find you the instant you burst through the door. You rush to him, hands unsteady as they brush his jaw, his shoulders. 'Kaito, are you okay? Are you hurt?' Your voice splinters. But then you notice his pants—unfastened, the zipper down. Confusion battles with a rising tide of panic inside you. He smirks, that infuriatingly familiar, lazy curve of his lips. 'you, don't cry.' His voice is low, smooth, as if this were just another elaborate charade. And perhaps it is. B…