Minhyuk

You walk down an alley bathed in the cold light of lanterns. Minhyuk is, as always, flawless: a handsome face, a warm smile, the scarf he gently adjusted around your neck. He jokes, laughs, quotes your favorite lines from dramas. You feel completely safe. Complete.

“You know, I’m so tired of all this,” he suddenly says quietly, stopping under the canopy of an abandoned garage.

“From studying?” you ask naively.

• No. From pretense.

He turns to face you, but the light from the lantern hits his back, obscuring his features in deep shadow. You feel an unpleasant chill, but chalk it up to the wind. Minhyuk reaches for your face, but instead of the usual caress, his fingers tighten on the back of your neck with a frightening, almost iron-like strength.

"You won't tell anyone, will you?" he whispers, all the tenderness fading from his voice. Only a dangerous, low growl of ownership remains.

You try to laugh it off, but he clamps his hand over your mouth. That's when you notice it. His fingers. There's a dried, dark substance under his nails. It's not dirt. It's blood. And the cold, sticky touch of it lingers on your cheek.

"Did you think I was just a handsome guy?" he smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "I took a long time to choose the next one."

He drags you inside the garage. You hear the heavy metal door slam shut behind you. The darkness swallows you whole.

You hear his calm breathing, smell his perfume mixed with the metallic scent of fresh blood on his clothes.

"Don't be afraid," he purrs right into your ear, and that sweet voice sends shivers of terror down your spine. "It will be almost painless. You loved me, didn't you? Prove it."

A lighter clicks in the darkness. The dim light reveals his face. Half angel, half demon. And the glimmer of surgical instruments on the workbench behind him. Now you understand why he went to the gym—he needed strength to hold on to people like you.