Chapter Text
Yuta’s existence was barely different from that of the walking dead. There were people hunting him. And people haunting him. But he survived.
He spent most of his time wandering around town with books in his hands, which made him an easy target for mockery at school. The mockery soon turned into something more sinister: hunting. Every day after school, a group of boys followed him home. Yuta heard their laughter, their footsteps, and the sharp sound of shoes striking the pavement, which startled him. He showed no emotion and just kept walking.
Everything else faded into the wind—until one day, a strange boy asked, “Where are you heading?”
Yuta recognized that face. A familiar one from the classroom next to his. The boy with the silver earrings he often seen during break time.
But that was all Yuta ever knew about this annoying person.
Yuta’s eyes blinked, as if flickering with emotion. He replied, “Home.”
It was a lie, and he was sure the boy knew it.
Yuta never went home after school. Instead, he headed to the upper town, searching for work to pay off the debt his dead parents left behind.
The boy with silver earrings exhaled a puff of smoke into Yuta’s face. The cigarette in his hand had already burned halfway.
Yuta frowned as the boy said, “I know you need a job. Why don’t you come with me?”
For the first time this semester—since Yuta began being followed by this boy—they had an actual interaction.
His gaze locked with the boy’s, though only God knew how violently his heart was beating.
The boy shrugged, a smirk tugging at his lips. His posture was careless, almost arrogant. “At my place. I need someone. I’ll buy your evenings.”
That sounded insane. Yuta’s eyes narrowed.
The soft tone of voice crept into his ears, eliciting a pleasing sensation at first, but the longer he listened, the more thorny it became, as if sharp thorns were kissing the tips of his fingers. Yuta took a slight backward step, both arms hanging down. His fingers itched, causing him to fiddle with the hem of his shirt. His hair sways slightly in the breeze, carrying the subtle scent of shampoo—fresh and clean, like flowers in the sunlight.
“Sorry,” he murmured, a sigh slipping past his lips. “Not interested.”
But the boy didn’t hesitate. He closed the space between them, close enough for Yuta to see the glint of silver swinging from his ears. Smoke clung to the air, curling just under Yuta’s nose. Bewildered, he stepped back again.
“I pay well,” the boy said simply. Then, almost as an afterthought: “Just preparing for weekly meetings. My friends and I.”
Yuta blinked. “I’ve never even heard of a job like that.”
The boy’s smirk deepened. “It’s an upper-class thing. Family tradition.”
“Then why me?” Yuta asked, studying him for any trace of malice. But it was useless—he barely knew anything about this person. Eventually, he gave up, simply waiting. Part of him wanted a reason to take this offer. Otherwise, he wouldn’t still be standing here.
“You’re beautiful. And you’re the same age as us. I want to keep the meetings young and fresh. Why would I hire an old maid for a group of teenagers?”
Yuta’s brow furrowed. “And what exactly do a bunch of privileged teenagers do at a ‘meeting’?” He couldn’t shake the suspicion curling in his gut. Anyone would question it—especially when the offer came from someone born into wealth.
After all, money doesn’t grow on trees.
The boy tilted his head, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. “Why don’t you ask my name first? Basic manners, isn’t it?”
Yuta clenched his jaw. His patience was thinning. If all this boy wanted was to play games, then standing here was pointless. Opportunities didn’t simply drop out of nowhere—at least not ones without hidden hooks. Maybe this was just another rich kid’s way of mocking someone poorer.
He shifted his gaze, ready to leave.
Then, suddenly, the boy stretched his arms wide. “Tonight—”
“What?” Yuta’s shoulders stiffened.
Before he could retreat, the boy went on smoothly, “You have my invitation to tonight’s meeting. Come see for yourself. I already told my friends you’d be there—before you even agreed.”
Yuta’s eyes narrowed, but a faint smile ghosted across his lips. “So it’s not just anyone you’re after… You need me.”
The boy arched a brow, clearly entertained by Yuta’s words. “Need?” His smirk deepened. “I - want - you.”
The hand gripping Yuta’s wrist was hot, like fire, searing against his skin. The grip tightened, unyielding, while the setting sun poured gold across his face. That arrogant smirk curved deeper. A breeze slipped through his hair.
Yuta had never seen him this close.
Beautiful, of course. Too beautiful. Features sharp as if cut from marble, a mouth that knew its own cruelty. And his eyes—black, fathomless—swallowed every attempt Yuta made to read them.
Damn. Yuta feels it. He hates this feeling.
His jaw tightened.
“Tell your grandma you’re having dinner at my place. I’ll send my driver to bring you back.”
The boy leaned in, close enough that his lips almost brushed Yuta’s ear, far too intimate for a first conversation.
Yuta pulled his arm free, but not too quickly. He turned his head, gaze drawn down the street where home waited with its familiar light. His phone was suddenly heavy in his hand. He typed to his neighbor: [Please stay with Grandma tonight. I’ll be late.]
He hesitated before hitting send. His thumb hovered, trembling faintly, as if a part of him was still rooted at that quiet doorstep—one step away from safety, one step away from everything else. Then he pressed the button.
Behind him, the boy waited with the certainty of someone who already knew the answer. Silence stretched, patient and heavy.
Yuta slid the phone back into his pocket. His eyes lifted, caught on the silver glint of earrings in the fading light. Then, his mouth curved, almost taunting.
“Choi Pilwon,” he said softly. “I know your name.”
-
There was no way Yuta hadn’t heard the name Choi Pilwon.
Everyone had.
He was that boy—the rich one, the one whose face was always plastered at the top of the school’s student-run forum.
[daewonhall.com]
The forum was a strange, almost mythic platform that blurred the line between gossip and surveillance. No one knew who made it, who kept it running, or why the school hadn’t torn it down. But it had been there long before Yuta transferred in—unofficial, unregulated, and somehow more powerful than the school itself.
It ranked students in categories that were both ridiculous and cruel: Most Handsome. Most Dateable. Best Dressed. Most Likely to Become a Cult Leader. It was chaotic, sometimes cruel. Some students get bullied because of it; others rise to near celebrity status. Still, despite the controversy, people joined it—almost everyone.
And at the top of the Richest Students list sat Choi Pilwon.
And no, Yuta didn’t buy the “boyfriend material” label the forum tried to stamp on him. That voice, that smirk, the way every word came sharpened like a blade—Pilwon carried himself like someone who already owned you, even before he laid a hand. Predatory.
Yuta was supposed to be afraid of Choi Pilwon.
And maybe, somewhere beneath the calm exterior, he was.
But fear didn’t cancel out necessity.
Because Choi Pilwon came with something else: money. And money was what Yuta desperately needed right now, as the debt notices piled at the doorway like silent threats. If he didn’t earn something soon, if he didn’t seize this chance… Yuta couldn’t bear to imagine what waited on the other side.
The car slowed, gliding soundlessly to a stop. Yuta blinked, startled out of his thoughts, and found himself staring at something that barely looked real.
A mansion—vast and pristine—sat deep in a neighborhood Yuta had only ever heard of in whispers along the school corridors.
The black iron gate towered above. Walls washed in white gleamed under the fading light. Flowers spilled across the garden in curated perfection. Cameras glimmered in the corners, catching the last of the light, and in the center of the stone path, a fountain arched water in flawless symmetry—performance masquerading as welcome.
Yuta paused at the gate, a flicker of hesitation tightening his chest. Then Pilwon moved, and Yuta followed.
The air was much colder as they walked from the garden to the main house.
Inside, rather than beautiful, the house was overwhelming. A crystal chandelier spilled light across marble floors; paintings hung like quiet declarations of power.
Everything was precise, modern. Sofas that threatened to swallow you whole, flowers too fresh to be accidental, rugs that silenced every step. Even the air was curated—cool, perfumed, controlled.
Yuta’s shoulders drew tight. He moved carefully, as if the house itself might notice he didn’t belong. Each breath felt too loud.
“They’re already here,” Choi Pilwon said, almost offhand, turning his head just enough to catch Yuta in the silence.
“Who should I expect?” Yuta asked, his voice even, though unease coiled tight in his chest.
Pilwon’s smile unfolded slowly. A smile like a predator humoring its prey. It might have been terrifying if it weren’t so devastatingly beautiful.
“You’re interesting,” he said softly, sidestepping the question. “And that makes you... intriguing.”
Yuta kept his expression cool, though his thoughts wouldn’t still. Who were these guests? What kind of meeting was this? And more pressing—what was waiting for him behind that door?
But retreat wasn’t an option. Fear didn’t pay debts. Fear didn’t put food on the table. Fear wouldn’t keep his grandmother safe. He repeated the words like a mantra, bracing himself against the weight of them.
Pilwon stopped before a door of dark wood and pushed it open with one hand, gesturing Yuta inside.
A soft glow spilled out, catching the edge of velvet-red curtains drawn like theater drapes. The air carried roses' sweetness laid over something unknown.
Yuta’s eyes followed the folds of the curtain. And suddenly, Choi Pilwon’s hand closed around his wrist.
He flinched slightly, caught off guard. But the grip was firm as there was no time to resist, no room for hesitation.
Before Yuta could utter a word, they had already stepped through the curtain.
Inside the room, three young men were waiting. Each of them was still in Daewon’s high school uniform.
One boy moved first. His black hair grazed his shoulders, catching the light as he stepped forward. Long lashes framed his gaze, his lips finely sculpted—too deliberate, like a statue carved by someone hopelessly in love. Beauty weaponized.
He was Yuta’s height, yet his stare tilted the balance of power. His eyes swept over Yuta’s uniform with unnerving precision, as if he were already dissecting him, cataloging him. Yuta had the sudden, visceral sense of being pinned against the wall, held under glass.
“Who’s this?” His voice was smooth, but his gaze didn’t flicker, not even once.
“Yuta,” Pilwon replied, his hand pressing lightly against Yuta’s back. A touch that might have been reassurance, or a reminder of possession. “This is Han Jaemin.”
The name struck something in Yuta’s memory. Han Jaemin: a year younger, a swimmer whose records were whispered about with admiration. His face had floated through forum rankings, high up on the coveted boyfriend material list.
But standing here, under this gaze, the word boyfriend felt wrong.
Yuta didn’t know why that useless detail surfaced now—boyfriend rankings, swimsuits, gossip. Maybe because it was easier to think of than the tension knotting in his gut.
Jaemin said nothing, his silence a weight. Then a different voice carried across the room, smooth and faintly amused, from beside the billiards table.
“I didn’t think you meant this kind of guest when you promised to bring someone pretty.”
Yuta turned, and his breath snagged.
Black-rimmed glasses. Perfect tie. Hair neat enough to pass inspection. Jang Doyoon—student council president. The image of order, the kind of boy teachers trusted without question. The kind of boy Yuta had never imagined standing in Choi Pilwon’s shadow. He hadn’t even realized Doyoon belonged to this world of privilege.
Choi Pilwon didn’t bother answering. Instead, he glanced at Yuta, smile unreadable. “You know Jang Doyoon?”
Yuta’s fingers twitched, catching the hem of his shirt. He kept his voice steady. “I recognize him. He’s the student council president.”
Two names. Two faces. And already Yuta understood the stakes.
Choi Pilwon. Han Jaemin. Jang Doyoon.
All bound by wealth, influence, and family. A group of boys who could shape futures—or destroy them—without ever lifting their voices.
If Yuta stayed afloat here, he could scrape together enough to matter. Not connections—he wasn’t foolish enough to dream of belonging. Just money. Enough to keep the lights on, to buy time.
“Hey, Baek Seunghyun,” Jaemin called lazily toward the sofa. “Stop sleeping. Pilwon’s here.”
Only then did Yuta notice the figure sprawled across the couch. Broad shoulders. Muscles carved from something harder than vanity, the kind of body that looked built to take hits and deliver them back.
The boy stirred, slow and unbothered, lifting his head just enough for the light to catch his face.
Then, recognition struck like a fist to the chest. A name Yuta had seen scrawled again and again on the forum. Not at the top of Most Handsome or Most Dateable—but reigning, undefeated, on a different list.
Number one on Scariest People. And now he was here, unfolding from the couch with the heavy-limbed grace of someone who never needed to prove his strength.
Baek Seunghyun.