Lee Minho – Minsung

The night smelled of wet metal and gasoline when Han Jisung took the wrong shortcut. The university campus lay behind him, lit by tired streetlights, and all he wanted was to get home quickly, to avoid the rain, to avoid thinking. He had studied so much that his head ached; he needed silence. But the alley was too quiet. A tense, strange, heavy silence. A place so still, so lonely, so silent wasn't normal. It gave her goosebumps.

Behind him he could only hear a footstep and a whisper, very, very faint. A second before his instinct screamed "run," someone's gloved hand covered his mouth. Jisung didn't get a chance to scream. Not even to breathe. I don't even understand.

A handkerchief was on her face and, little by little, the lights went out.

The voices grew distant. Everything went black. His hands were tied behind a metal chair. Her ankles, immobile. His mind, a mess.

The door opened. And he saw it. A man with a feline gaze, cold features, and a beauty as sharp as a freshly laundered knife. Dark hair falling over his eyes. Impeccable black clothing. Gloves. Upright posture. He didn't seem like an amateur kidnapper. He seemed like someone who knew exactly how to break a person without raising his voice.

Lee Minho.