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Sieun was never the impulsive type. He was meticulous—planned everything down to the last detail. His days were so structured, he could tell you the exact minute he’d finish brushing his teeth at night.
But not today. Definitely not today .
It was supposed to be a normal Friday. Stay in his dorm. Maybe read a book, order Chinese takeout, finally catch up on that one series Juntae wouldn’t stop talking about all semester.
Not this.
Not this—where Sieun stood frozen in his living room, staring at the bleeding, lifeless body of his boyfriend. Correction: Ex-boyfriend .
Geum Seongje.
Their backstory wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. He met him during club recruitment week. Sieun was only there for the free pens and snacks, not for conversation. He barely glanced at the volunteers calling out for new members—until one voice cut through the noise.
Loud. Confident. Borderline cocky. That was Seongje.
He wasn’t his type—he’s too loud, too persistent, too sure of himself. Maybe that’s why Sieun ignored him the first few times he tried to talk. Maybe that’s why he ended up noticing him at all.
Seongje had this way of making you feel like you were the only person in the room. He’d show up with extra coffee during his morning classes, walk him to the library without asking, wait for him outside class just to say hi. It was annoying. Charming. Eventually, it was routine.
One day, they just were together. No big confession, no romantic moment. It just… happened.
At first, Seongje was sweet. Overbearing, but sweet. But slowly, the cracks showed. The way he didn’t like when Sieun talked to certain people. The way his moods flipped like a switch. The way his hands sometimes gripped a little too tight.
Sieun always had a plan for everything. He was cautious. Careful. But he hadn’t planned for this—falling for someone who didn’t know how to love without hurting.
The breakup was ugly.
No closure, no clean goodbye—just a cold text from Sieun that read: We’re done. Don’t come here.
But Seongje never listened. Especially not to no.
That's how Seongje ended up in his dorm room in the first place. He barged in unannounced—furious, breathless, eyes wild.
And now, here he was.
Seongje on the floor. Blood soaking into the rug.
And Sieun, hands trembling, trying to understand how it ended so violently.
He doesn’t even remember how it started. One moment they were arguing—loud, heated, like always.
Then the bastard got violent. He came at him with a kind of rage he had never seen before—not in the arguments, not in the worst of their fights. It was like something had snapped. His eyes were wild, unfocused, his voice no longer raised in frustration but twisted with something darker.
This wasn’t the man who used to walk him home with an umbrella even when it wasn’t raining. Not the boyfriend who brought him snacks during all-night study sessions or texted cheesy good morning messages just to make him smile.
No, this version of Seongje was a stranger. Unrecognizable. Like all the softness he once had had been stripped away, leaving only something raw and dangerous behind.
And in that moment, Sieun realized—this wasn’t a fight anymore. This was survival.
Out of instinct, he ran to his desk, grabbed the first thing he could—his scissors.
And before he could think twice, he was stabbing. Once. Twice. Over and over.
Everything after that was a blur. The yelling stopped. The room went quiet. And Sieun just stood there, hands shaking, staring down at what he’d done.
Sieun couldn’t breathe.
He couldn’t run.
He just stood there—wide-eyed, splattered in red, shaking like a child. His mind raced through every worst-case scenario. Prison. Headlines. His name dragged through the filth. He thought about his scholarship—gone in an instant. Years of hard work, ruined. His future, his chance to graduate, all slipping away with every drop of blood soaking into the floor.
All he could think was: I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean to.
And then, out of the shadows, someone stepped forward.
He was tall, sharp-jawed, too pretty for a night like this—messy dark hair, calm eyes that looked like they’d seen far worse. Even now, surrounded by blood and chaos, he looked irritatingly hot.
"You're lucky I'm a sucker for pretty faces," the stranger said coolly. His voice was oddly casual, like they were discussing the weather.
Sieun flinched. "Who—? How did you even get in here?"
"I’m Suho. I’d love to introduce myself but you know, no time" he says while looking at the mess and already pulling gloves from his coat.
"You’re coming with me. Now."
&&&
Hours later, the body was gone. Disposed of. No trace, no noise. Just an eerie calm as the two of them sat in a 24/7 university diner lit by buzzing fluorescent lights. They were pretending to be normal. Two college students out on a late date—coffee and pancakes, laughter forced but convincing enough for witnesses.
Suho stirred his coffee, voice low but steady. “If anyone asks, we were out on a date all night. You left your phone at home. We didn’t run into anyone else. Simple.”
Sieun blinked, still trying to keep up. “That’s it?”
Suho gave him a small, satisfied smile. “That’s the alibi. And it’s airtight. You’re welcome.”
And since he’s running on fear and caffeine and a low-key identity crisis, Sieun just simply nodded.
&&&
Days passed. Then weeks. And slowly, things began to unravel.
Sieun started noticing the little things—the way Suho moved with quiet, practiced precision, like someone trained to stay invisible. The untraceable phone. The stack of burner IDs tucked away in a drawer he wasn’t supposed to open. The way he always chose seats near the exit. How his gaze lingered on shadows just a second too long, like he was waiting for something—or someone.
After the incident, Suho had introduced himself as a transfer student. A literature major, he’d said, new to the university and still figuring things out. He even threw in a backstory—came from a small school down south, didn’t like crowds, preferred quiet places like libraries and late-night diners.
It sounded believable. Too believable.
But then the cracks started to show. No student ID. No digital footprint. No one in the lit department had ever heard of him. Not even the admin office had a record of his name.
That’s when it hit Sieun—Suho wasn’t a student. He never had been.
He planned to confront him, but decided to wait until after their date. Dinner, a movie, then back to Suho’s apartment.
But the night felt too normal. Too gentle.
So Sieun stayed. He told himself he’d ask tomorrow.
And then there was the gun. He found it carelessly left out on Suho's bedside drawer when they woke up.
"What the hell is this?" Sieun demanded.
Suho didn’t even flinch. He just looked at him and said, "I was supposed to kill Seongje. I was supposed to kill him."
Silence .
"I was hired. I know you guys had a history. You probably think your ex-boyfriend’s a saint, but he pissed a lot of people. People with money. They wanted him gone." Suho leaned back against the wall, looking too calm for someone who just admitted to being a hitman.
Sieun’s stomach dropped. "Was I supposed to survive… if it had been you who killed him?"
"Well no.. but because you killed him first, you made my job easier" Suho replied.
Sieun swallowed hard, his mind racing to catch up. "But… how did you even know Seongje was in my apartment that night? Why were you there?"
Suho gave a small, almost amused smile. "Because I was already watching you. Had been for weeks. It’s part of the job—learn your routine, study your habits, wait for the right moment."
Then he added, voice flat: "You were a target too."
Sieun blinked, stunned. "What?"
"The job wasn’t just about Seongje," Suho said. "Someone wanted both of you gone. He was reckless—got involved with the wrong people. And you? You were the loose end."
Sieun’s voice wavered. "Then why help me? Why cover it up? Why get rid of the body like none of it ever happened?"
Suho looked at him for a long moment before answering. "Because that night... you changed the plan. You killed him before I could. And when I saw you—shaking, covered in blood, still trying to hold yourself together—I made a call."
Sieun stared at him. "So what? You just... switched sides?"
Suho smiled, slow and unreadable. "Let’s just say, you became more interesting than the paycheck."
Sieun should’ve run. Screamed. Reported him. Moved countries.
Instead, he tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly. "...So you were watching me."
Suho smiled, slow and unapologetic. "Always."
Something about the way he said it—smooth, low, terrifying—should have sent a chill down Sieun’s spine. And it did. Just… the wrong kind. He was horrified by himself, but damn it, Suho was hot. Killer or not, he was calm, protective, and borderline feral when Sieun was in danger. And gay or not, that did things to him.
"You’re insane," Sieun said, rubbing his temples.
"And you’re still here," Suho countered, standing way too close now.
Sieun looked up at him. "I really should be scared of you."
"You are," Suho said. "Just not enough."
The air between them crackled with something unspoken. Dangerous. Magnetic.
And Sieun, knowing full well he had just fallen for the man who was sent to end his life, muttered under his breath:
"Fuck."
To which Suho only grinned, "Later.”
—
In the end, Sieun didn’t care if Suho had blood on his hands. He had blood on his, too. What mattered was that they kept each other’s secrets. What mattered was that when the world burned around them, Suho stood between Sieun and the fire.
And maybe, just maybe, he’d grown attached to the man who was never meant to let him live.
He was curious, after all. And at this point—after everything he’d done, everything he thought he’d never be capable of—what was one more reckless decision? Like getting acquainted with a killer?
The line between right and wrong had already blurred.
So he stepped over it—without looking back.