Back to the Beginning

by Anonymous

Summary:

Test fic dont mind this (prolly wont finish)

Kdj participates in regression or something

 

*I forgot to add but this is heavily inspired by Bad With Romance by Anonymous!*

Notes:

• Inspired by [Restricted Work] by Anonymous (Log in to access.)

Chapter 1: Intro

Kim Dokja woke to the familiar weight of silk sheets against his skin. The ceiling above him was not the white-washed hospital ceiling he had seen in his last moments, nor the cold sterile lights that had flickered as his lungs gave out. It was ornate, carved with intricate floral designs—a ceiling he had long ago learned to despise.

The bedroom of his aunt’s mansion.

His heart thudded. For a moment, he thought it might be some cruel afterimage before death. But the air was warm, the clock on the bedside table ticked steadily, and when he pinched his own arm, the sting was real.

He had come back.

Back before the marriage.

Back before Yoo Joonghyuk’s cold eyes had cut through him at the altar.

Back before his life was shackled and strangled by contracts, dinners, board meetings, and a home where silence became a weapon.

And back before his death.

Kim Dokja sat up slowly, pressing his palm against his chest. It was still tender—ghost pain from the way his heart had failed. He remembered too clearly: the endless nights, the way his body withered while his husband watched from across the room, unmoved, untouched. He remembered the loneliness. The betrayal of realizing his aunt and uncle had only ever seen him as a pawn.

But now—

He touched his face. His skin was unlined. His body felt lighter. The mirror on the far wall reflected a younger version of himself, no older than twenty. His regression point was years before the marriage.

A hysterical laugh escaped him, sharp in the silence. He quickly pressed a hand to his mouth, trying to choke it back. No, he couldn’t laugh. Not here. Not now. If the maids heard, word would reach his aunt, and then questions would follow.

He needed time. He needed to plan.

A knock came at the door.

“Dokja-ya, are you awake?”

The voice was feminine, honeyed and authoritative. His aunt. Kim Dokja’s blood ran cold.

It was too soon.

“Yes,” he croaked, forcing his voice to sound as dull as the boy he had once been. The obedient adoptee. The child who never protested.

The door opened, and in swept his aunt, Kim Hyesung. Perfectly styled hair, a pearl necklace that gleamed under the morning light, and a smile that could freeze blood.

“You have an important day today. Remember to be on your best behavior.”

Her words clicked into place in his mind. Of course. Today was the first meeting. The dinner where Yoo Company and Kim Group would sit together, where the suggestion of a “union” would first be voiced.

His regression point was cruelly precise.

“Yes, Aunt,” he murmured, bowing his head.

She studied him, eyes sharp, as though trying to detect the smallest crack in his obedience. Finally, she nodded. “Good. Don’t embarrass me.”

When she left, the air seemed to grow lighter, though the tension in his chest did not. Kim Dokja sank back onto the bed, fingers curling in the sheets.

Yoo Joonghyuk.

The name alone was enough to conjure images. That sculpted face, always expressionless, like a mask carved from ice. The man who became his husband, not out of choice but obligation. The man who had never touched him, never looked at him with anything but disdain.

The man whose presence had killed him more effectively than any blade could.

Kim Dokja shut his eyes. His regression wasn’t just a second chance at life—it was a chance to escape.

But the question was how.

He could run. Disappear before the dinner, vanish before Yoo Joonghyuk’s eyes ever landed on him. Yet his aunt’s family would never allow that. They had invested too much in him, molding him into a bargaining chip. Running would only put a target on his back.

No—if he wanted freedom, he needed to change the game.

He needed to outmaneuver them all.

When evening came, the dining room glittered with chandeliers and polished silver. Kim Dokja walked beside his aunt, his steps quiet, his head bowed. He could feel the weight of eyes—shareholders, businessmen, relatives—all gathered to witness the joining of two empires.

And at the head of the long table sat Yoo Joonghyuk.

Even in this lifetime, he was breathtaking. Sharp jawline, dark eyes that missed nothing, posture rigid as though the world itself rested on his shoulders. He looked exactly as Dokja remembered—terrifyingly untouchable.

Their gazes met.

Kim Dokja’s chest clenched. Memories flooded in: the icy silence of their shared penthouse, the untouched side of the bed, the papers signed with Joonghyuk’s indifferent scrawl, the look in his eyes as Dokja’s body collapsed for the last time.

Dokja forced himself to smile faintly, bowing politely. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Yoo Joonghyuk’s expression did not shift. His voice was low, clipped. “…Likewise.”

The dinner began. The adults spoke of mergers and market shares, the promise of two dynasties united. Kim Dokja kept his smile in place, answering questions when addressed, pretending to be the perfect adoptee. All while his mind raced.

This was the night it all began.

And this time—he swore—he would not let it.

When the final toast was raised, Kim Dokja excused himself to the balcony, letting the cool night air bite at his skin. His hands shook as he gripped the railing.

He wasn’t the same helpless boy anymore. He had lived through the end once. He knew what awaited him if he let the story repeat.

So he wouldn’t.

“Planning to run?”

The voice was close. Too close.

Kim Dokja froze before slowly turning.

Yoo Joonghyuk stood in the doorway, his gaze steady, unreadable. The moonlight painted him in silver, making him look more like a phantom than a man.

Kim Dokja swallowed, forcing his voice steady. “Would it matter if I did?”

For the first time, Yoo Joonghyuk’s eyes narrowed, as if he had not expected such words from the meek boy everyone believed him to be.

And in that instant, Kim Dokja realized something crucial.

Perhaps he wasn’t the only one who had changed.

Chapter 2: Dead Man

When the dinner finally ended, Kim Dokja retreated to his bedroom with careful, measured steps. His aunt’s smile lingered in the hallway like a curse, and Yoo Joonghyuk’s unreadable gaze still burned in his mind.

The servants would think he was retiring early from nerves. They were half right.

He locked the door, drew the curtains, and pulled out a leather-bound notebook from the desk drawer. In his first life, he had never dared to keep a diary. His aunt would have seen it as weakness, his husband as useless sentimentality.

But now, with the knowledge of what awaited him, it wasn’t a diary. It was a weapon.

He opened the first page and wrote carefully in neat, deliberate script:

The Story of Kim Dokja’s First Life.

The pen trembled slightly in his hand. He forced himself to continue.

I was adopted by Kim Hyesung at the age of eleven. At first, I thought it was kindness. I thought I had been chosen, rescued from a life of nothing. It took me years to understand that I was only a replacement—an ornament to parade in public, a pawn to polish and trade when the time was right.

His handwriting was clean, almost detached, but his chest ached with every word.

At twenty-three, I was promised in marriage to Yoo Joonghyuk, heir of Yoo Company. The union was arranged, cold, and devoid of choice. I stood at the altar as a shadow. That day marked the start of my end.

Kim Dokja paused, fingers tightening on the pen. He remembered the vows spoken in front of a hundred witnesses, the champagne glasses clinking, the way Joonghyuk’s hand had rested against his for only a moment before pulling away.

He continued.

The marriage was not violent. That would have been easier. It was silence that killed me. Indifference. I lived in a glass house where nothing ever moved. Joonghyuk did not speak to me unless necessary, did not touch me unless in public, did not look at me except to remind himself of an obligation fulfilled. I was invisible in my own home.

The ink blurred slightly where a drop of moisture fell. Kim Dokja blinked furiously and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. He had promised himself he would not cry. Not now, not again.

He forced himself to keep writing.

I died at thirty-one. My heart failed in the middle of winter. I had not left the house in weeks. My aunt and uncle did not come to the funeral. My husband stood by the casket with the same expression he had worn on our wedding day: blank, unreadable, cold. That was the last face I saw.

Kim Dokja put down the pen. His breathing was shallow, his throat tight. The memories sat heavy in the room, suffocating him.

For a long time, he simply stared at the words, at the condensed tragedy of a decade written in less than two pages.

Then, slowly, he picked up the pen again.

But now, I have returned. I do not know how, or why. Only that I will not let this story repeat. This book will contain every detail I can remember—names, dates, weaknesses, choices. If I falter, this will remind me. If someone finds it… perhaps they will understand the truth of Kim Dokja.

He turned the page, drew a line at the top, and began listing events in precise order:
• Age 23: First proposal dinner (tonight).
• Age 24: Engagement announced publicly.
• Age 25: Marriage contract signed.
• Age 26: Marriage ceremony.
• Age 27–30: Years of silence, no freedom, no allies.
• Age 31: Death.

Kim Dokja underlined the last word twice.

Then, beneath it, he wrote:

New Goal: Break the story before Age 25.

The certainty of it steadied him. His first life had been written like a script. This time, he would be the one holding the pen.

He closed the notebook, locking it inside the desk drawer with a small key. It would not stop someone determined from finding it, but for now it was enough.

He washed his face, smoothed the traces of exhaustion, and slipped into bed.

Yet even as he drifted into sleep, he couldn’t shake the image of Yoo Joonghyuk on the balcony earlier. The way he had looked—not with disdain, but with curiosity.

Had that always been there? Or was something different this time?

When morning came, Kim Dokja rose early. He placed the key to the drawer on a chain and wore it under his shirt. His armor. His secret.

Today would bring more scrutiny, more plotting, more carefully laid traps from his aunt’s family. But he wasn’t the same naive child anymore.

He had a record. A plan. And the knowledge of how his story ended.

This time, Kim Dokja swore to himself, he would be the author.

Chapter 3: Reunion

The café was the same.

That was the first thing Kim Dokja noticed as he pushed open the glass door, the bell overhead chiming. The same mismatched furniture, the same faint smell of roasted beans and cinnamon, even the same barista humming along to the radio as if nothing in the world had changed.

It was absurd — that everything could stay so perfectly preserved when he had lived and died and lived again.

He stepped inside, clutching his jacket tighter around himself. His eyes flicked toward the corner booth, the one that had always been theirs.

And there they were.

Jung Heewon was the first to notice him, raising a hand in greeting, her short hair falling into her eyes as she leaned back in her seat. Next to her sat Lee Hyunsung, broad-shouldered and awkward as ever, fiddling with the sleeves of his cardigan. Across from them, Yoo Sangah waved brightly, her gentle smile unchanged, while Han Sooyoung leaned her chin on her hand, smirking like a cat about to pounce.

On the far side of the table, Lee Jihye was animatedly telling a story, Shin Yoosung and Lee Gilyoung leaning in with rapt expressions. Even Namwoon, somehow, was there, looking as restless as ever, tapping his fingers against his phone.

And at the very end, half-hidden behind a tall latte glass, sat Jang Hayoung, earbuds dangling around their neck as they scribbled something in a notebook.

It was all so achingly familiar that Dokja’s throat closed.

“Dokja!” Yoo Sangah’s voice rang out warmly. “Over here!”

He forced his feet to move. One step, then another, until he was standing at the edge of the booth.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said, his voice steadier than he felt.

“You’re always late,” Han Sooyoung drawled, her eyes narrowing in amusement. “I was starting to think you’d ghosted us for good this time.”

The words were teasing, but something in her tone made his stomach twist.

He slid into the empty seat beside Gilyoung, who beamed up at him. “Hyung! You’re here!”

Yoosung tugged at his sleeve immediately after. “You disappeared last week. Where did you go? We thought you got kidnapped!”

Dokja let out a weak laugh, ruffling Yoosung’s hair. “Sorry. Just… had a lot on my plate.”

It wasn’t a lie. Just not the kind they could ever understand.

⸻

The conversation swirled around him almost immediately, easy and chaotic. Jihye went back to her story about almost setting her kitchen on fire. Hyunsung tried to give her cooking tips, which she loudly ignored. Heewon sipped her coffee with a sigh that said she had given up on ever being surrounded by normal people.

And Sooyoung—Sooyoung watched him.

Dokja felt her gaze like a physical weight, sharp and calculating. He avoided her eyes, instead focusing on Sangah, who was asking him about work.

“It’s… fine,” he said. “Busy.”

“Busy with what?” Namwoon cut in, leaning forward. “Come on, hyung, you can’t keep secrets from us.”

“I can,” Dokja replied flatly, earning a round of laughter from the table.

The sound was warm, grounding. For a moment, he let himself sink into it—the chaotic symphony of voices, the bickering, the comfort of being part of something alive. He had missed this more than he could admit.

But then his chest tightened again, the memory of a coffin lid closing over him, the echo of silence where their laughter had once been.

He swallowed hard, fingers clenching under the table.

Not this time.

⸻

“So,” Sooyoung’s voice cut through the noise, deceptively casual. “What’s with you, Kim Dokja?”

He froze.

Around them, the conversation stuttered before picking up again, though Hyunsung gave him a worried glance. Sooyoung, of course, didn’t care about tact.

“You’re acting weird,” she said, leaning closer, her smirk sharp. “More than usual, I mean. Did you get dumped? Secretly win the lottery? Or…” Her eyes glinted. “Are you hiding something from us?”

Dokja forced a laugh. “I’m always hiding something. Isn’t that part of my charm?”

“Charm, he says,” Heewon muttered.

Sooyoung didn’t let up. “Seriously. You disappear for days, show up looking like you haven’t slept, and now you’re sitting here like a ghost. What gives?”

Her words hit too close. For a moment, Dokja’s mask cracked, panic rising like bile.

If she knew. If any of them knew—

He shook his head quickly, plastering on a crooked smile. “You’re imagining things.”

“I don’t imagine,” Sooyoung said smoothly. “I observe.”

“Leave him alone,” Sangah cut in gently, though her eyes lingered on Dokja with quiet concern.

But Sooyoung wasn’t satisfied. She leaned back, eyes narrowing. “Fine. Keep your secrets. But don’t think I won’t find out.”

Dokja exhaled slowly, tension coiling in his shoulders. He knew better than anyone that Han Sooyoung’s curiosity was a dangerous thing.

⸻

The night stretched on, the café filling with their laughter and arguments. Jihye tried to steal Hyunsung’s muffin. Yoosung and Gilyoung begged Dokja for stories, which he deflected with practiced ease. Even Namwoon, for all his bluster, ended up paying for the group’s second round of drinks after losing a bet.

It was almost normal.

Almost.

Dokja smiled when expected, chimed in when necessary, but underneath it all was the gnawing ache of memory. Every laugh reminded him of silence. Every warm face was a reminder of cold absence.

He stared at his half-empty cup, the words he would never say pressing against his throat.

I died at thirty-one.
None of you were there.
And I missed you every day until the end.

His hand tightened around the mug. He couldn’t say it. Not now. Maybe not ever.

But as he looked around the table—at Heewon’s exasperated sighs, at Hyunsung’s gentle patience, at Sangah’s kindness, at Sooyoung’s piercing gaze, at Yoosung and Gilyoung’s bright laughter—he swore to himself:

This time, he wouldn’t let go.

⸻

The night ended with the usual chaos—Jihye trying to drag Namwoon into another argument, Hyunsung herding them toward the door like a long-suffering parent, Sangah thanking the barista profusely, Heewon muttering about needing more coffee to survive.

“Dokja,” Sooyoung said as they stepped outside into the cool night air.

He stiffened.

She smirked, hands in her pockets. “You’re still hiding something. Don’t think I’ll drop it.”

Before he could respond, she leaned closer, her voice lowering just enough for only him to hear.

“But whatever it is… you don’t have to carry it alone, you know.”

Dokja’s breath caught.

Then she straightened, grinning like nothing had happened. “See you next time, loser.”

And just like that, she was gone, weaving into the crowd.

Dokja stood frozen on the sidewalk, the weight of her words pressing down on him.

He wanted to believe her. He wanted to let them in.

But for now, all he could do was clutch the key around his neck, the diary waiting in his desk drawer, and whisper to himself:

“Not yet.”

Notes:

I rewrote it.

Chapter 4: Heavy failures

Notes:

Act 1 has just begun yet, our favourite reader is already getting eaten alive… how do you think kim dokja will make it out alive? ^_^

Kim Dokja sat on the edge of his bed long after he returned from the café, the faint smell of coffee still clinging to his coat. His friends’ laughter lingered in his ears like an echo from a different lifetime.

Han Sooyoung’s voice was the sharpest of them all.

“Since when do you smile like that, Kim Dokja?”

He tugged his tie loose, fingers trembling at the knot. The mansion was quiet except for the muffled sounds of servants clearing away dishes downstairs. His aunt had insisted he attend yet another dinner tomorrow. Another dinner, another performance. Another step toward the future he had already lived once.

He pressed the heel of his hand against his eyes until the memories blurred. His first life had ended like this too—laughter fading into silence, joy buried under obligation. But this time, he had a record. He had words written down, something more solid than grief.

Dokja rose and crossed the room to the desk. He unlocked the drawer and pulled out the leather-bound notebook. The pages whispered against each other when he opened it, the ink from earlier still dark and sharp. He read the last lines again:

New Goal: Break the story before Age 25.

His hand clenched around the pen.

Sooyoung knows.

She hadn’t said it aloud, but he could see it in her narrowed eyes, in the way she leaned just a little too close. She’d always been like that—cutting through pretenses, dragging truths into the light whether people wanted them there or not.

He should be afraid. And he was. But underneath that fear was the strangest flicker of hope.

If Sooyoung could see through him, maybe the others could too. Maybe he wouldn’t have to do this entirely alone.

He exhaled shakily and turned to a fresh page.

⸻

Entry: Day Two
• Met with friends tonight. Han Sooyoung suspicious.
• Friends still feel the same. Warmer than I deserve.
• Reminder: I cannot let them be caught in this. My death was quiet last time, but they deserve better than being tangled in my failures.
• Aunt continues with plans. Need to buy time.

⸻

The tip of the pen pressed too hard, dotting the page with ink. Dokja pulled back, staring at the blotch like it was proof of his unraveling.

“Kim Dokja.”

His aunt’s voice floated through the door, polite but firm. He snapped the notebook shut, heart leaping to his throat. Quickly, he locked it away and tucked the key back beneath his shirt.

“Yes,” he called back.

The door opened before he finished speaking. Kim Hyesung swept inside, dressed in a silk robe, her perfume clouding the air with sweetness that turned sour in his nose.

“My dear, you’re awake,” she said, smiling as though she had stumbled upon a child sneaking treats. “I worried you might already be in bed after your… little outing.”

She said outing the way one might say indulgence.

Dokja rose and bowed his head. “It was only for a short while.”

Her eyes flicked over him—tie loose, hair slightly mussed—and lingered just long enough to make him feel like a stain on her perfect carpet. Then she waved a manicured hand dismissively and sat herself on the chaise near his window.

“You’ve grown bold,” she said lightly. “In my day, boys your age wouldn’t dream of wandering off without permission. But I suppose times are different.”

Dokja forced a smile. “It won’t happen often.”

“See that it doesn’t,” she replied, though her tone remained sweet. “After all, we wouldn’t want people to misunderstand your… commitments.”

The word hit him like a chain clinking shut.

Commitments.

Marriage.

The carefully arranged union with Yoo Joonghyuk—the cousin who wasn’t really Joonghyuk at all.

He bowed again, swallowing down the acid that burned his throat. “Of course.”

Her gaze softened, almost maternal. “You’re a clever boy, Dokja. I know this must all feel overwhelming, but think of what we’ve given you. A home, a name, protection. Soon, you’ll have more than you could ever dream of. Isn’t that worth a little discomfort?”

Discomfort.

He remembered the silence of his first marriage. The suffocating indifference. The way no one came to his funeral.

“Yes, Aunt,” he murmured, each word tasting like ash.

Her smile widened, satisfied. She rose gracefully, patting his cheek as though sealing the conversation with affection. “Good boy. Don’t worry so much. The Yoo family will take care of you.”

When she finally left, the room felt colder.

Dokja sank back into his chair, his nails digging crescents into his palms.

Good boy.

He wanted to scream.

Instead, he reached for the diary again.

⸻

Entry (continued):
• Aunt suspicious but pleased. Believes she holds the leash.
• Important: escape must happen before engagement is finalized.
• Cannot repeat the same death.

⸻

A knock startled him. Softer this time. A servant’s voice carried through.

“Sir, the Master requests your presence tomorrow morning in the study.”

His uncle. The man who had always been more absent shadow than parent.

“Understood,” Dokja replied automatically.

Footsteps retreated. Silence returned.

He closed the book and pressed his forehead against it, breathing in the faint scent of leather.

How long could he keep balancing this mask before it cracked?

His friends’ laughter still clung to him, a reminder of something brighter. But here in the mansion, everything felt muted, as if color itself had been drained away.

He thought of Gilyoung tugging on his sleeve, Yoosung demanding more dessert, Sangah’s gentle questions, Heewon’s easy confidence. Han Sooyoung’s smirk.

A family he had chosen.

He couldn’t let his aunt’s poison touch them.

Not again.

Not ever.

Slowly, he opened the notebook one last time that night and scrawled the words across a clean page, harsher than before:

⸻

New Goal: Escape.

⸻

Kim Dokja closed the diary with finality. For the first time in two lives, his chest ached not only from despair, but from determination.

The cage had golden bars, but it was still a cage.

And this time, he would break free.

Chapter 5

Kim Dokja had been staring at his notebook for over an hour, but the words refused to come. The pages lay open, his pen balanced between his fingers, and still he couldn’t write anything beyond the last line he’d scrawled the night before:

New Goal: Break the story before Age 25.

The words mocked him, bold and final. He closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose, and tried not to think about the faint ache that still lingered in his chest from last night’s argument with his aunt. Her voice was a blade, every sentence carefully honed to slice away the thin armor he wore.

Kim Dokja was halfway through a tepid cup of instant coffee when his phone buzzed for the fifth time that morning. He ignored it.

Then it buzzed again. And again. And again.

By the time the screen lit up with twenty-three unread messages, his resolve cracked. He groaned, dragging the phone closer like a man retrieving his own death warrant.

The group chat was on fire.

[Han Sooyoung]: Dokja you absolute bastard, stop ghosting us.
[Lee Jihye]: For real. It’s been YEARS, you think you can slip back into the city and pretend we won’t notice??
[Jung Heewon]: Everyone wants to see you. We’re meeting at the usual café. Be there.
[Han Sooyoung]: Or I’ll drag you by the ear.
[Kim Dokja]: …
[Han Sooyoung]: Don’t you dare send those dot-dot-dots at me, Kim.

Kim Dokja set the phone down and pressed his palms into his eyes. He should’ve known yesterday’s “chance” encounter with them would snowball. He should’ve left town immediately. He should’ve—

The phone buzzed again.

[Lee Hyunsung]: Dokja-ssi, please come. It won’t be the same without you.

…And that was the nail in the coffin. Hyunsung, with his kind, guileless persistence, had always been his weakness.

Dokja sighed, shoved on his coat, and told himself it was just coffee. Just a short visit. He could handle this.

⸻

The café hadn’t changed. Same peeling paint on the doorframe, same chalkboard menu written in Yoo Sangah’s looping handwriting.

Inside, the noise hit him first. Laughter. The scrape of chairs. Familiar voices overlapping in a way that made his chest ache.

Then he saw them.

His friends. His family, really. All gathered around two pushed-together tables.

Jihye waving dramatically, Heewon rolling her eyes, Hyunsung already half-standing to greet him. Gilyoung and Yoosung bickering over a milkshake, Namwoon making exaggerated gagging noises at the couples, Hayoung looking like she’d stepped out of a magazine.

And at the center of it all—Han Sooyoung, grinning like a cat who’d caught her favorite mouse.

“Oh my god,” she drawled, loud enough for the whole café to hear. “Kim Dokja actually showed up. Did hell freeze over?”

Dokja’s throat tightened. He wanted to smile, to slip back into the rhythm of banter—but then he saw the last two people at the table.

Lee Seolhwa. Bright, composed, impossibly kind. And beside her—

Yoo Joonghyuk.

Not the one who haunted his current life with scarred hands and a predator’s silence. No. This was his Joonghyuk. The Joonghyuk he had known since university. The one who used to fall asleep on Dokja’s couch after gaming marathons, who ate convenience store ramen like it was a delicacy, who once punched a professor for insulting Seolhwa.

Same sharp profile. Same dark eyes. Same infuriating, blunt expression.

But when this Yoo Joonghyuk looked at him, it wasn’t with cold indifference. It was with recognition. History.

“Kim Dokja,” Joonghyuk said simply.

Dokja’s heart twisted.

⸻

The afternoon blurred. Conversations layered over each other. Jihye dragged him into recounting his “mysterious” years abroad, Hyunsung fussed about his weight, Yoosung shoved half her cake at him with a proud grin.

Dokja smiled in all the right places, deflected questions with practiced ease. On the surface, it was normal. It was perfect.

But every time he glanced across the table, he was struck by the impossible reality of it: Yoo Joonghyuk, alive and laughing, leaning close to Seolhwa with a softness in his eyes that Dokja had never been able to claim.

And worse—every memory it dragged up collided with another image in his mind.

The other Yoo Joonghyuk. The one waiting for him at home like a noose around his neck.

That Joonghyuk was taller, broader, carved by a harsher world. His voice was measured, his eyes sharp as blades. He looked at Dokja not like a friend, not like a stranger, but like a puzzle he intended to dismantle.

This Joonghyuk—the one he had known since college and clung to in his first life—was blunt and human and irritatingly dear. His laugh was unguarded, uncalculated. When he spoke, it wasn’t strategy. It was simply him.

Two men. Same name. Same blood. But where one was warmth he could never touch, the other was ice he could never escape.

And Dokja was caught in the crossfire.

⸻

“You’re quiet.”

The voice snapped him out of his spiral.

Han Sooyoung was watching him from across the rim of her coffee mug, eyes sharp as knives.

Dokja forced a shrug. “I’m always quiet.”

“Not like this,” she said. Her grin was gone now, replaced with something far too perceptive. “You look like someone just punched you in the gut.”

He hated her sometimes. Hated how she could peel him open with a single glance.

“I’m fine,” he said flatly.

“You’re lying again. To my face.”

He stiffened. But before he could respond, Sooyoung leaned back, deliberately loud again: “Hey, everyone, look at Kim Dokja trying to act mysterious. He’s probably hiding something scandalous.”

The table erupted in laughter. Jihye immediately demanded to know if he had a secret girlfriend, Hyunsung flustered through a defense on his behalf, Yoosung and Gilyoung chanted “confess, confess.”

Dokja smiled weakly, let them tease, let the noise cover his silence. Only Sooyoung’s eyes stayed on him, narrowed, suspicious.

⸻

Later, when the crowd began to thin and couples peeled away, Dokja excused himself early. His chest was too tight. His smile too brittle.

On the walk back, he couldn’t stop replaying it: Joonghyuk’s face lit by café lights. Seolhwa’s hand resting casually over his. The easy comfort between them.

And overlaid on top of it, another face. Scarred. Cold. Waiting.

Two Joonghyuks. Two futures. Both suffocating.

By the time he reached his room, his hands were shaking. He locked the door, drew the curtains, and pulled out the notebook.

The pen dug hard into the page as he wrote:

The Difference Between Them.

The Joonghyuk I knew: lean, blunt, human. A friend. My closest companion, though he was never mine. His laugh was unguarded. His presence was safe. I loved him, though I never said it aloud. He belongs to Seolhwa now, as he always should have.

The Joonghyuk I am bound to: taller, scarred, sharpened by a life I can’t imagine. He speaks in calculation, sees in silence. He is not safe. He is not kind. He is… something else. I don’t understand him. I don’t want to.

Dokja stared at the words until the letters blurred.

Then, beneath them, he added:

Two faces. Same name. Both chains around my neck.

The pen slipped from his hand.

For a long time, the only sound in the room was his own.

Notes:

2 chapters in a day… Someone praise me please, I might burnout soon haha…. 🫠

Chapter 6: I am getting lazy to write a title haha

Notes:

I have returned.

I did not expect so many people to enjoy this fic my goodness! Thank you for the support! I had to take a small break because I burnt out from excitement haha this fic will now be updating weekly to save me from the fire of my own consequences, I hope everyone understand <3

Kim Dokja had been sitting at the desk for hours, but the pen in his hand hadn’t moved in just as long. The heavy silence of the mansion pressed against him, all velvet curtains and spotless order, suffocating in its perfection.

The page before him was stark, his last words etched in neat, deliberate strokes:

Two faces. Same name. Both chains around my neck.

It looked wrong in this place—wrong in a room lined with oil paintings, a chandelier glimmering faintly above, and furniture polished to a shine so bright he could see his reflection if he dared. Every detail screamed of wealth, stability, permanence. Everything he was not.

He sat in the middle of it, small and fragile, as though the room itself were mocking him.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Dokja stiffened. Nobody knocked here. The staff glided silently, his aunt entered when she pleased, and silence was the house’s only language.

Another knock. Louder this time. “Dokja, open up.”

His blood ran cold.

Han Sooyoung.

He pressed his palms to his face. Of all the people to breach these pristine walls—

The handle rattled. “Don’t even try pretending you’re not in there. I’ll yell until the whole mansion hears me.”

With a muttered curse, Dokja forced himself up and unlatched the door.

Sooyoung breezed past him the moment it opened, shedding her jacket onto the nearest chair like she owned the place. “Wow,” she said, glancing around. “So this is how the other half rots.”

“Keep your voice down,” Dokja hissed. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“Relax. The butler let me in. Said you don’t get many visitors. Guess he was desperate for you to have a friend.”

Dokja winced. He shut the door quickly, as though that might keep the fragile bubble of this encounter from bursting. “You can’t just—”

“Yes, I can,” she said, cutting him off. Her eyes swept over the tidy, lifeless room. “God, it’s like a hotel. You’ve been hiding in here since you came back, haven’t you?”

“I’ve been busy.”

“With what? Counting the cracks in the ceiling? Plotting your slow death?” She glanced at the notebook on his desk. He lunged for it, snapping it shut before she could get closer.

Sooyoung raised a brow. “That’s not suspicious at all.”

“It’s private,” he said flatly.

She didn’t press. Not immediately. Instead, she flopped onto his bed with deliberate carelessness, wrinkling the sheets as though to spite the room’s neat perfection. Her presence was loud, disruptive, human—so at odds with the mansion’s suffocating silence that it made Dokja’s throat tighten.

“You look like hell,” she said finally, softer now. “What’s going on with you?”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.”

He turned his back on her, moving to pour himself water just to have something to do. The glass was crystal, absurdly heavy in his hand.

“I told you—”

“Don’t you dare say you’re fine again,” Sooyoung snapped. “I’ve known you too long for that crap. You’re pale, you’re twitchy, and you look like you’re waiting for something to—” she broke off, biting the word— “to happen.”

His grip on the glass tightened. A beat of silence passed before he said quietly, “Maybe I am.”

Sooyoung sat up. Her sharpness faltered, worry breaking through. “…Dokja.”

He hated the sound of it—his name in her mouth, heavy with concern.

He tried for a smile, brittle and shallow. “You’re being dramatic.”

“Don’t.” Her voice cracked, and for once, there was no teasing in it. “Don’t push me away with that. Not again.”

The words cut deeper than he expected.

Sooyoung stood, crossing the room until she was close enough to force him to meet her eyes. There was no smirk, no mask. Only raw worry. “If you’re stuck, say it. If you’re hurting, say it. Don’t sit in this gilded cage pretending it doesn’t bleed you dry.”

He wanted to look away. He couldn’t.

At last, he whispered, “I feel… trapped. Like I’m living a story I didn’t choose. And no matter what I do, the ending’s already written.”

Silence.

Sooyoung’s jaw tightened, her hands curling into fists at her sides. Then, quietly: “Then write another ending.”

His chest ached. The words sounded so simple on her tongue. Impossible in his world.

“You don’t understand,” he murmured.

“Maybe not.” Her voice wavered now, anger laced with something dangerously close to fear. “But I know you. And I know you’re too smart to just wait here for whatever it is that’s eating you alive. So fight back. Or if you can’t…” She swallowed. “…then let us help you. Let me help you.”

For a long moment, he couldn’t breathe.

Her eyes shone, fierce and trembling all at once. He had never seen Han Sooyoung look like this—like he mattered enough to break her composure.

It was unbearable.

So he looked away, setting the glass down with shaking hands.

“…You should go,” he whispered.

She stared at him, as if willing him to change his mind. But when he didn’t, she finally exhaled, shoulders tight.

“Fine. But don’t think this is over.” She grabbed her jacket, her gaze lingering on him one last time before she slipped out, the heavy door clicking shut behind her.

The silence returned, heavier than before.

Dokja sank into the chair, pressing his forehead to the desk.

He didn’t cry. He didn’t break.

But in the hollow quiet of the mansion, with his notebook under his hand, a thought took root—dangerous, undeniable.

Maybe the only way out of this gilded cage was to run.

Notes:

I may or may not write this in one of the chapters but the butler is Kygrios who has been serving kdj since he first got adopted and helping the ‘young master’ adjust. In this AU he comes from a small village and was hired for work in the city due to his great abilities in combat, at first he was to be a bodyguard for kdj but became a butler instead since he is a little short for a bodyguard in kdj’s aunts eyes so he got demoted. He hated it at first but kdj managed to placate him by listening to his training stories :3

(just a small lore dump not that important lol)(I just realised I have yet to give kdj’s aunt a name… oh well)

Chapter 7: Im running out of title names

Notes:

I couldn’t resist… my laptop was calling to me… My bad for leading you guys on like that

Kim Dokja had always been good at imagining endings.
It was beginnings he struggled with.

The night after Han Sooyoung had left and had him thinking, he sat at his desk in his aunt’s mansion, the curtains drawn to a thin crack that let in enough daylight to remind him he was still alive. His notebook lay open, the black cover already worn soft at the edges from his restless hands.

He had written three words across the top of a fresh page in sharp, unshakable ink:

Exit Strategy.

It looked clinical. Neat. Detached. But his pulse still jumped when he saw it.

He leaned back, tapping his pen against the paper, and forced his mind to settle. This wasn’t about feelings. Feelings were unreliable, fickle things that had betrayed him before. Numbers, however—numbers never lied.

⸻

Budget.

His aunt’s allowance was more than generous. Too generous, in fact. A monthly deposit large enough to keep him living in quiet comfort so long as he stayed silent and out of her way. It was, in essence, hush money dressed in familial obligation.

Kim Dokja never spent it all. Never even came close. He had trained himself to live on the bare minimum: instant noodles, convenience store rice balls, the occasional cheap book or bus fare. He wrote down the figure of what he allowed himself each month, then the actual number that appeared in his account, then the difference.

The difference was staggering. And worse, it was growing.

He stared at the accumulating wealth, the money he had always considered too tainted to touch. Every bill was a reminder of her disdain, every transfer a leash tied around his neck. But now—now it could be a weapon.

He turned the page and wrote:

Savings usable for relocation: [ ]

He didn’t fill it in yet. Instead, he moved to the next section.

⸻

Housing.

Apartments. Condos. Studio flats. Anything that wasn’t this gilded cage. He opened his laptop, the glow of the screen cutting harsh lines across his face in the dim room. His fingers flew across the keyboard with mechanical precision: property rental sites, housing forums, the classifieds.

The numbers hit him like a slap. Even for a modest one-room flat, the prices in Seoul were brutal. Rent alone could swallow half of what he allowed himself monthly. And then there were deposits, maintenance fees, utilities—each line item another shackle.

He rubbed his temple, narrowed his eyes, and started doing the math.

Option A: Stay in Seoul.
Pros: Familiar, accessible, close to friends.
Cons: Astronomical rent, risk of being found by his aunt, limited privacy.

Option B: Move to outskirts.
Pros: Lower rent, more space, anonymity.
Cons: Longer commute, isolation, weaker safety net.

Option C: Relocate to another city entirely.
Pros: True freedom, anonymity, sever all ties.
Cons: High initial costs, loneliness, risk of severing too much.

He jotted them down without hesitation, as though writing pros and cons could somehow balance the scales of his life.

The pen stilled over the page. He could almost hear her voice in the silence: cold, sharp, belittling. You’ll never survive without us. You’ve never done anything on your own.

His jaw tightened. He wrote a final line under each option:

Feasibility: uncertain.

⸻

Work.

The word hung heavy in his notebook, stark against the paper.

He hadn’t held a real job in years. Technically, he’d never had to—his aunt’s allowance insulated him, his family name kept doors ajar even when he never stepped through them. But what good was insulation if he was suffocating inside it?

Dokja drew a line beneath the heading and began a list.
• Retail clerk (convenience store, grocery)
• Customer service (call center, receptionist)
• Delivery (requires motorbike/car → costs too high)
• Administrative assistant (N’gai Co.)
• Temp office work (short contracts, instability)
• Freelance writing (unreliable, risky)

He scrutinized each item like an enemy profile.

Retail clerk → long hours on his feet, minimum wage, likely younger coworkers who would notice his age. Pride wasn’t a factor, but sustainability was. Could he work graveyard shifts and still function? He’d done worse for less, but still.

Customer service → emotional labor. His throat tightened at the thought. Endless voices, endless complaints. Would his mask hold up day after day?

Delivery → discarded immediately. No license, no vehicle, no desire to tempt death in Seoul traffic.

N’gai Company Administrative assistant → that one stayed. His pen pressed deeper into the paper, leaving faint indentations. Office work meant structure. Predictability. He was good at predictability.

Temp office work → high turnover, low stability. He needed permanence, not one more shaky scaffold.

Freelance writing → he almost laughed. He’d been writing all his life, but never for profit. His words weren’t the kind people paid for.

He drew a star beside N’gai Company.

The page looked too decisive. Too easy. He scowled at it, flipped to a fresh sheet, and wrote in bold letters:

What I need to survive:
1. Shelter
2. Food
3. Income
4. Anonymity

He circled the last word twice.

⸻

Shelter.

He ran the numbers again. Rent deposits, monthly rates, utilities. His aunt’s allowance could cover them with room to spare, but that defeated the purpose. If he ran, he had to sever that lifeline. To keep accepting her money was to keep the leash tight around his throat.

He calculated based only on his savings—years of hoarding the excess she gave him. The numbers were better, but still brutal. Deposit + first month’s rent for a one-room in Seoul = half his current savings gone in one stroke.

He jotted a grim note in the margin: Look into goshiwons.

It was humiliating, but practical. Tiny student boarding rooms, sometimes barely more than a closet. Bed, desk, shared bathroom if he was unlucky. He could endure that. He’d endured worse in silence already.

⸻

Food.

His spending here was already razor-thin. Instant noodles, rice, eggs, canned soup. He wrote down the bare minimum needed per month and then halved it. He could live on less if necessary. Hunger was a familiar ache.

⸻

Income.

Administrative assistant salary—he looked up average numbers. It was modest, but compared to retail, it was enough. Enough to cover rent, food, transit, and still squirrel some away. Enough to survive.

But he still didn’t trust it.

He opened another tab: survival forums, minimalist living blogs, underground threads about escaping bad homes. The advice ranged from laughable to desperate. He copied useful fragments into his notebook.
• Keep a go-bag ready.
• Cash hidden inside shoes.
• Never tell anyone where you’re moving until after you’ve moved.
• Use cash for the first few months if you can—bank transfers leave trails.
• Buy secondhand furniture.
• Learn to live with nothing.

His hand cramped from writing, but he didn’t stop.

⸻

Anonymity.

This was the hardest.

His aunt had eyes everywhere. Networks of acquaintances, colleagues, family friends who would whisper his name back to her without hesitation. If she wanted to find him, she could. The only chance he had was slipping beneath the noise—choosing a place so unremarkable that no one would think to look.

He pulled up maps of Seoul, circling districts he knew. Crossing out those too close to her. Crossing out those too expensive.

The circles grew smaller and smaller until only a handful of neighborhoods remained. Cheap, cramped, forgettable. The kind of places where lives disappeared without ripple.

He exhaled through his teeth and leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling.

The ceiling here was high, ornate, decorated with moldings no one ever noticed. This house was a monument to his aunt’s power, her wealth, her disdain. Every corner whispered that he didn’t belong, that he was tolerated rather than welcomed.

And yet it was comfortable. Warm. Safe. Predictable.

It would be so much easier to stay.

That thought unsettled him more than any rent deposit or job listing. He sat upright, opened his diary to another page, and forced his hand to move again.

Reasons to leave:
• No freedom here.
• No identity of my own.
• This house is not mine.
• This money is not mine.
• Staying means death by slow suffocation.

He read the list aloud, once, in a flat voice. To hear it spoken gave it weight.

The silence afterward felt heavier still.

⸻

Secondary Plan.

Because plans failed. They always did.

If the N’gai Company job vanished, if his savings ran dry, if his aunt’s shadow fell across him again, he needed a fallback.

Plan B: Part-time + goshiwon. Bare minimum survival.
Plan C: Freelance + odd jobs. Barely sustainable.
Plan D: Run further—Busan, Daegu, even Jeju. Burn bridges.

Plan D was extreme, but he wrote it down anyway. Because if there was one thing Kim Dokja understood, it was that endings rarely went the way he wanted.

He looked at the clock. 4:19 a.m.

His notebook was full of lists, margins crammed with notes, numbers underlined and rechecked. His laptop glowed with dozens of open tabs. His head throbbed from the weight of it all.

And yet, nothing was decided.

The administrative assistant posting from N’gai Company still sat in the center of the screen, patient and silent, as if waiting for him to click.

His fingers hovered over the mouse.

Not yet.
Not yet.

He closed the laptop with a soft click and shut off the lamp.

The room plunged into darkness, but the lists in his head did not fade.

Notes:

RIP my sleep I am busy writing plotja

Chapter 8

Kim Dokja had not slept.

He told himself he would only sketch out a few exit strategies before bed, scribble down numbers, maybe scan one or two job postings. But the night had a way of devouring him whole. When dawn finally broke, his desk was a battlefield of open notebooks and scribbled pages, margins filled with calculations pressed too deep into the paper as though sheer force could make them real.

He snapped the drawers shut the moment he heard a knock at his door.

“Dokja,” came his aunt’s clipped voice. “Come downstairs. We have a guest.”

Guest. That word never brought anything good. Guests meant performance, meant masks, meant playing the role she wanted him to play. He smoothed his expression into practiced neutrality and obeyed.

The sitting room downstairs gleamed with morning light. The furniture was polished to a shine, the tea service already prepared. His aunt sat with perfect posture, smiling the kind of smile that had always made Dokja feel like prey.

And standing at the center of the room—

Yoo Joonghyuk.

Even if they had only crossed paths once in this lifetime, Dokja would have remembered him forever. He was tall, his posture uncompromising, his presence filling the room like it had a right to. He wore the same dark suit as before, but what caught the eye were the mismatched ones: his left eye dark, human; his right golden, glowing faintly as if lit from within. A scar cut across the brow, pale and sharp against his otherwise flawless skin. It reminded him of so many good and bad things that it momentarily disoriented him.

“Your future fiancé wanted to visit,” his aunt said brightly, gesturing toward Joonghyuk as though presenting a prize.

Dokja’s body went still as he was rudely brought back to reality. His lips curved into a brittle imitation of a smile.

“I’ll leave you two to get better acquainted,” she continued, rising with the smooth grace of someone entirely in control. “It will be good for both of you.”

He opened his mouth to protest, but she was already sweeping from the room, her heels clicking against marble like punctuation marks. The door shut, sealing him in.

Silence.

Yoo Joonghyuk’s gaze was immediate, steady, unrelenting. He did not speak. He did not move. He simply looked.

Dokja sat down on the sofa, deliberately casual, leaning into the cushions like this was any other morning. “Didn’t realize surprise visits were part of the package,” he said dryly. “Or should I start preparing for daily inspections now?”

The golden eye narrowed slightly. His scar seemed to draw taut with the motion. “So you’ve decided to greet me with sarcasm.”

“Better than silence,” Dokja replied, crossing his arms. “Unless glaring is your preferred method of courtship.”

The silence stretched again, taut as wire. And then—

“You’re not what I imagined,” Joonghyuk said finally.

Dokja tilted his head, smirking faintly. “Let me guess. You expected someone pliant? Docile? Grateful to be chosen?”

Joonghyuk stepped closer. Each movement was measured, like a predator circling. “I expected compliance.”

“Then you’ll be disappointed,” Dokja answered coolly. “I’m allergic to chains. And smug men who think being mysterious is a personality trait.”

A flicker—too subtle to be called a smile, but a crack in the armor all the same—crossed Joonghyuk’s mouth. His golden eye glinted. Interest, not annoyance.

That unsettled Dokja more than fury ever could.

⸻

A servant entered quietly, carrying a tray of tea and delicate porcelain cups. His aunt, from the hallway, called sweetly: “Sit together, enjoy the tea. I expect to hear good things.”

The servant set the tray down and slipped out, the door clicking shut once again.

Now there was no escape.

Dokja reached for the teapot first, his movements calm but deliberate. He poured two cups, his hands steady despite the electric tension in the room. “Since you’re the guest, you can have the first sip,” he said lightly, sliding a cup toward Joonghyuk across the polished table. “Or should I taste it first in case my aunt decided poison was the faster option?”

Joonghyuk’s golden eye flickered, sharp. He picked up the cup without hesitation and drank. His throat worked once, twice, as he swallowed, before he set the porcelain back down with precise finality. “Not poisoned.”

“Shame,” Dokja muttered. He took his own cup, sipping with feigned indifference. The tea was floral, expensive, the kind his aunt reserved for showing off. It tasted like gilded cages.

Joonghyuk turned the cup so the handle was facing the palm of his rough right hand. Maybe it was on purpose or not intentional at all but he put his mouth exactly where Dokja’s had been when taking a sip.

They sat in silence for a moment, the clink of porcelain the only sound. Joonghyuk watched him, gaze unwavering.

Dokja broke it first. “So. What is this, exactly? Curiosity? Boredom? A chance to confirm I’m not a cardboard cutout?”

“I wanted to see you,” Joonghyuk said simply.

“You could have requested a file,” Dokja replied. “I’m sure my aunt has an entire dossier on me—height, weight, favorite brands of toothpaste. Very efficient.”

“That’s not what I wanted to see.”

The way he said it was steady, unshaken, but there was something layered beneath. Dokja’s brow arched, his lips curving into a sharper smirk. “And what exactly do you think you’re seeing now? Someone worthy of being shackled to your side?”

“Someone who can fend for themselves,” Joonghyuk said after a pause.

The words hit the air like a blunt strike. Dokja’s smirk faltered, just for a second. He masked it quickly, leaning back against the cushions, swirling his tea in the cup as though unimpressed. “You really have a talent for romantic declarations. Your fan club must be thrilled.”

The scar shifted as Joonghyuk’s expression darkened into something unreadable. But his gaze remained steady, burning. “You hide behind humor.”

“And you hide behind silence,” Dokja shot back, raising his cup in mock salute. “We all have our hobbies.”

He remembered, the silence that filled the halls and the stiff atmosphere that haunted the unnecessarily huge villa. It was that same villa which was stained with his blood. Snapping out of his thoughts he glanced back up at Joonghyuk.

For a moment, their eyes locked, golden against dark. The tension in the room crackled.

It was Joonghyuk who moved first. He set his cup down again, the porcelain clinking against the saucer. “This marriage—”

“Future marriage,” Dokja corrected swiftly, voice clipped. “The paperwork isn’t signed yet. Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

That earned another flicker of amusement, faint but undeniable. The scar twisted with it, making the near-smile look dangerous. “Future marriage,” he conceded. “Do you want it?”

The question landed heavy.

Dokja let silence stretch, then forced a lazy grin. “Oh yes. It’s every boy’s dream to be packaged and delivered like a parcel. I can hardly contain my excitement.”

“Lies,” Joonghyuk said simply.

Dokja’s grin sharpened. “What makes you think you can read me?”

“I don’t need to. I know.”

The certainty in his tone dug beneath Dokja’s skin. He drained the rest of his tea, set the cup down harder than necessary, and leaned back with exaggerated carelessness. “You really are insufferable.”

“And yet,” Joonghyuk said softly, “you intrigue me.”

The golden eye gleamed, unyielding.

Dokja forced a laugh, but it sounded too brittle in his own ears. “Fantastic. Intrigue. I’ll put that on my résumé.”

But the truth of it lingered. Yoo Joonghyuk was not deterred by his sarcasm, his walls, his sharp words. He leaned into them. Found something in them worth looking at twice.

And that was far more dangerous than hatred.

⸻

The tea cooled between them, steam curling in faint threads that vanished before reaching the ceiling.

Yoo Joonghyuk had not shifted an inch since sitting down, the golden eye steady, his scar a pale slash dividing his face like some cruel artist’s mark. Kim Dokja resisted the urge to tap his cup against the saucer just to break the silence.

Instead, he leaned back, perfectly casual. “So, do you usually stalk your future fiancés, or am I just special?” Moving the topic to something he could use to attack instead of cowering away like he used to in his past life.

Joonghyuk tilted his head, the barest of movements. “You are not ordinary.”

“Oh, I’ll take that as a compliment.” Dokja smiled thinly. “I’ve always aspired to be extraordinary by virtue of existing in someone else’s schemes.”

Joonghyuk didn’t flinch. “You mock what you fear.”

“And you project what you want to see,” Dokja returned swiftly.

Their exchange hung like a drawn blade, neither willing to retreat.

It was in that charged quiet that his aunt reappeared, her presence filling the room with carefully orchestrated warmth. She clasped her hands together as though the tableau pleased her immensely.

“Good. You two look comfortable,” she said brightly, her gaze flicking between them with the kind of satisfaction that always made Dokja want to set something on fire. “The cook has prepared an early lunch. Sit together, eat properly. It will do you good.”

Dokja stiffened inwardly. Lunch meant more time in Joonghyuk’s company, more theater under his aunt’s sharp eyes. But he pushed to his feet with feigned ease, bowing his head slightly. “Of course, Aunt.”

Joonghyuk rose as well, his movements fluid, precise. For all his scar and strange eye, he carried himself with unshakable poise. The kind of man his aunt loved to parade.

They followed her to the dining hall, where the long table gleamed under the chandelier’s crystal light. Silverware shone, plates arranged with surgical precision. Servants moved like shadows, setting down dish after dish: grilled fish, seasonal vegetables, rice polished to perfection.

Dokja slid into his seat, deliberately choosing one near the middle of the table. His aunt gestured, and Joonghyuk was placed beside him. Close enough their shoulders nearly brushed. A strategic choice—no coincidence.

The first course arrived.

“Eat,” his aunt instructed warmly, but her eyes sharpened as they lingered on Dokja. “It is important to share a meal. To understand each other.”

Dokja picked up his chopsticks, turning them in his fingers like weapons rather than utensils. “Nothing builds understanding quite like fish and rice,” he murmured.

His aunt’s smile froze for a fraction of a second. Joonghyuk, however, set to eating without a word, movements deliberate, efficient.

The silence stretched. Dokja felt his aunt waiting for him to fill it, to play the role of polite, agreeable host. But instead, he leaned back slightly, letting the silence suffocate instead.

Finally, she prodded: “Joonghyuk-ssi, I trust your journey was not too taxing?”

“No,” Joonghyuk answered flatly.

Her smile brightened. “Good, good. And Dokja,” she turned her gaze on him, “you should be honored. Not every young man receives such dedicated attention from his future fiancé.”

Dokja’s chopsticks paused midair. His smirk curved slowly, deliberately. “Oh, I am honored,” he said, tone sweet but laced with steel. “It’s not every day one gets inspected like a prospective horse at auction.”

The words landed sharp. His aunt’s smile faltered, then snapped back into place, brittle at the edges.

Joonghyuk’s golden eye glinted. Not outrage—interest. He set down his chopsticks, his gaze flicking to Dokja as though to say, There you are.

“Dokja,” his aunt said smoothly, though her voice had tightened, “that is not how you should speak of such matters.”

“Forgive me,” Dokja said lightly, unrepentant. He leaned his chin into his palm, eyes half-lidded. “I meant no disrespect. It’s just refreshing, you know. To be so… thoroughly evaluated. I was beginning to worry no one saw my worth.”

The sarcasm was blatant, intentional. His aunt’s hand stilled against her teacup.

Joonghyuk, of all people, spoke next. “He doesn’t lie.”

Dokja turned his head sharply toward him, brows raising. “Excuse me?”

“You meant every word,” Joonghyuk said calmly. “The sarcasm only hides the truth.”

The table went taut, air razor-thin. His aunt’s lips pressed into a firmer smile, her knuckles whitening around porcelain.

Dokja’s smirk widened, deliberate provocation. “How fortunate. A fiancé with built-in lie detection. Truly, what more could I want?”

“Dokja,” his aunt’s voice sharpened, warning threading through.

But he was already leaning back, his smirk firmly in place, the game chosen. “Don’t worry, Aunt. I’ll behave. I wouldn’t want to embarrass you in front of my future fiancé.”

Her eyes flared—anger, frustration, the edges of her perfect mask slipping. She forced another smile, brittle but composed. “Perhaps we should give you both privacy to… acclimate. Lunch can be taken to your room if you wish.”

Dokja inclined his head, feigning innocence. “That sounds perfect. Thank you.”

Joonghyuk said nothing, but the faintest curve tugged at the corner of his mouth—a shadow of amusement.

⸻

When the servants came to clear the table, Dokja rose first, his movements unhurried. He caught his aunt’s gaze just long enough to let her see the spark of rebellion, then turned on his heel.

He didn’t look back to see if Joonghyuk followed.

But he knew.

The golden eye had not left him once.

⸻

The moment his door shut behind him, Dokja’s mask cracked. He dropped into the desk chair, leaning forward until his elbows dug into polished wood.

He’s dangerous.

That was the first thought that came, sharp as a blade. Yoo Joonghyuk was not his cousin from university — that boy carried the same eyes but not the same presence. This man felt like someone who had walked through fire and come out forged. Someone who could cut through every mask Dokja had ever worn and see the hollow truth beneath.

And his aunt had left them alone on purpose.

She thinks I’ll fold under the pressure. She thinks he’ll corner me until I’m obedient.

The smirk he’d forced earlier slipped into something grim. That was why he had slipped his tongue in front of her, why he’d drawn blood with words sharp enough to make her flinch. He needed her to know that obedience was not a given.

But the gamble had backfired in part. Joonghyuk hadn’t been insulted — he’d been interested.

And interest from a man like that was worse than disdain.

Dokja scrubbed his face with both hands, then pushed back from the desk, dragging his laptop toward him. The screen lit his features pale blue, his reflection hollowed in the glass.

I can’t delay anymore.

The idle browsing of apartments, the casual skimming of job postings — it all had to become action now. He couldn’t sit in this house and wait for Joonghyuk to tighten the noose.

He opened the word processor, cursor blinking against the empty page. A blank resume stared back at him.

⸻

It wasn’t the first time he’d written one, but this time it felt heavier. His aunt’s money had padded his life for years, though only because she wanted him out of her sight. A gilded cage was still a cage, and Dokja had learned early that the only way to breathe was to refuse its comforts when he could.

So he began to list them — the jobs that had nothing to do with wealth, everything to do with surviving on his own terms.
• Cashier at a dingy bookstore near campus.
• Night-shift clerk at a 24-hour convenience store.
• Library assistant, shelving books until his back ached.
• Temporary copy editor for a local magazine that had folded in six months.
• Translator for a handful of cheap online contracts.

It looked unimpressive at first glance, a patchwork of small-time roles. But to him, they were badges. Proof he hadn’t relied entirely on her rotten wealth.

His fingers paused over the keyboard. He considered padding it further — exaggerating, maybe. But no. If N’gai was as large and faceless as the posting implied, all they wanted was someone willing to grind. The resume didn’t need to dazzle; it just needed to prove he could work.

He formatted the document, double-checked spelling, fussed over margins longer than necessary. A ritual more than a necessity.

⸻

Back to the job board. He scrolled past familiar listings: retail jobs, low-level office positions, tutoring ads. All of them either underpaid or demanded experience he didn’t have.

Then his cursor stilled.

Administrative Assistant – N’gai Corporation

The description was stark, almost too clean. Required: organizational skills, communication, adaptability. Training provided, no prior experience necessary. Competitive pay. It was all too good to be true. He couldn’t even be sure if it was real seeing how long the spot had been vacant.

It was the same listing he had skimmed yesterday, dismissed as unrealistic. But now, with his aunt’s smile carved into his skull and Joonghyuk’s golden eye following him through memory, it looked less like a mirage and more like an escape hatch.

Would he even do well in such a competitive environment, or would he falter again like he did in his previous life when fate showed him the worst cards possible.

He hesitated only long enough to copy the details into a notepad, the way he did with all postings. Except this time, when the list of saved opportunities remained thin, he clicked Apply Now.

The form was simple. Name, contact, resume upload. Cover letter optional.

Optional meant dangerous — companies liked initiative. So Dokja opened a new document, fingers hovering.

What was there to say?

He typed carefully:

To whom it may concern,

I am writing to apply for the Administrative Assistant position at N’gai Corporation. I have experience balancing multiple roles while managing both academic and part-time commitments, which I believe has developed my organizational and problem-solving skills.

While my previous employment may not be within the corporate sector, I believe my adaptability and independence make me an asset. I am eager to learn, and I welcome the training opportunities provided for this role.

Thank you for considering my application.

Sincerely,
Kim Dokja

It was plain, unadorned, almost painfully honest. But it was enough.

He attached both files, filled out the last boxes, and hit submit before he could think too hard about it.

The confirmation screen popped up: Your application has been received.

Dokja leaned back, staring at the glow of the monitor.

⸻

His chest tightened. Relief and fear tangled into something raw. He had taken the step, but the uncertainty gnawed. What if they rejected him? What if they called his aunt? What if Joonghyuk already knew?

But the alternative was worse. Staying meant being dragged further into their orbit until he couldn’t tell where his choices ended and theirs began.

He pushed away from the desk, pacing the length of the room. The mansion felt smaller now, walls closing in, each polished corner a reminder of the cage.

He pressed a hand to his chest, steadying his breath.

One step forward. That’s all it is. One step out of this place.

For the first time in days, the sharp edge of despair dulled. The plan wasn’t perfect. It was fragile, dependent on a single application among hundreds. But it was his.

And for Kim Dokja, that was enough to keep going.

⸻

The mansion quieted after Kim Dokja excused himself, leaving only the faint clinking of porcelain as the maids cleared the table. His aunt dabbed her lips delicately with a napkin, her practiced grace unbroken even in the heavy silence that Joonghyuk left in his wake.

“Leaving so soon?” she asked, her voice warm, almost fond — though her eyes gleamed with the sharp satisfaction of someone who believed the pieces were falling exactly where she wanted them.

“I have business to attend to.” Yoo Joonghyuk rose, the long line of his figure precise, his movements taut with restrained power. He inclined his head, a show of respect that was just courteous enough to not be mistaken for servility. “But I thought it only proper to meet my… future fiancé.”

The word lingered in the air, deliberate. His aunt’s lips curved into a smile that betrayed her delight at hearing it spoken aloud. She reached for her teacup as if to hide the satisfaction trembling in her fingers.

“I’m glad you think so, Joonghyuk. Dokja can be… difficult.” A polite euphemism for everything she found distasteful about him. “But with you, I believe he will find discipline.”

Joonghyuk’s single golden eye caught the light, flashing almost predatorily. “Discipline is not something I lack.”

Her chuckle was polite, but her gaze drifted toward the staircase, where Dokja’s shadow had vanished minutes before. “I’ll trust you with him. Sometimes, he only needs a steady hand.”

“Mm.” He gave no other answer, but his silence seemed to speak volumes.

When the cars were brought around, Joonghyuk took his leave with the same unhurried confidence with which he’d arrived. A chauffeur opened the back door of the black sedan, bowing slightly. Joonghyuk slid into the seat, the leather interior swallowing him in shadows.

The door shut with a soft thunk, and just like that, the mansion behind him became nothing more than a reflection in tinted glass.

⸻

The city blurred past the windows as the car cut through late-evening traffic. Joonghyuk leaned against the leather, one elbow propped against the door, his long fingers tapping once against his knee.

“Sir,” his driver murmured, eyes still on the road. “Should we head to headquarters?”

“Yes.”

The word carried finality, and the driver didn’t ask further questions.

Joonghyuk’s gaze turned inward, the scar bisecting his left eye itching faintly as if remembering battles long past. His aunt had been eager to hand Dokja over, to let her nephew be swallowed into the orbit of someone else powerful enough to handle him. But Joonghyuk knew better.

Kim Dokja was not someone to be “handled.”

He was someone to be cornered.

And if the brief flashes he had seen tonight were any indication — that sharp tongue, that weary calculation bleeding through his mask — then Dokja was already halfway there.

Joonghyuk closed his golden eye, as if savoring the memory of the boy who thought himself so clever, retreating upstairs to sulk in the safety of his gilded cage.

You can run, he thought, a rare smirk tugging faintly at his mouth. But I will always know where the walls end.

⸻

N’gai Corporation’s headquarters loomed against the night, glass and steel stabbing into the sky like a monument to ambition. Inside, the sterile glow of white light greeted him, bowing employees murmuring their respect as he strode past.

At the top floor, the elevator doors opened directly into his office: a cavern of polished wood, vast windows overlooking the city, and the hush of power so thick it seemed to cling to the air.

“Yoo Sajang-nim,” his secretary said, rising from her desk the moment he appeared. She clutched a thin folder. “We’ve had several applicants for the Administrative Assistant vacancy you requested we post.”

Joonghyuk didn’t pause. He shrugged out of his coat, hanging it neatly on the stand by the door, then moved to the wide desk at the room’s center.

“Leave it,” he said simply.

The secretary hesitated. “One in particular might be of interest. It came through only moments ago. It fits what you described to look out for.”

He waved her off with the faintest motion of his hand, already sitting, already dismissing. “Handle it.”

But she lingered just long enough to add, “It’s a candidate by the name of Kim Dokja.”

That name cut through the stillness like a blade.

Joonghyuk stilled. His fingers, poised to open the folder at random, curled instead against the polished surface of the desk. Slowly, very slowly, his gaze lifted.

“Repeat that.”

The secretary, startled, cleared her throat. “Kim Dokja, sir. He submitted his resume tonight. For the position you insisted remain vacant.”

For a long beat, silence reigned. Then, inexorably, Joonghyuk’s lips curved into something dangerous.

A soundless chuckle vibrated in his chest, low and sharp. He leaned back in the chair, golden eye gleaming like molten metal beneath the office lights.

“Hook,” he murmured, the smirk deepening as though the words tasted sweet.

“Line.” His scarred hand drummed once against the armrest, anticipation coiling like a predator before the pounce.

“And sinker.”

The city lights glittered outside the windows, but Joonghyuk’s attention was already elsewhere — fixed firmly on a boy in a mansion who thought submitting a resume meant freedom.

The trap was set.

⸻

Kim Dokja was suddenly thrown into sneezing frenzy.

Is somebody talking about me?