The door to Kang's apartment closed behind us with a soft click, but the sound of my heartbeat was deafening in the silence. I glanced around, noting the neatness, the lack of clutter—it was nothing like the cramped, chaotic bar I had been used to. Everything here smelled clean, faintly of wood polish and expensive cologne.
Kang didn't look at me immediately. He simply set his bag down, moving with the slow, controlled precision of someone used to authority. "Sit," he said, nodding toward a chair in the corner.
I obeyed, keeping my hands folded tightly in my lap. The weight of the moment pressed on me—this was it. I was no longer in the bar. I was in his world now, and whatever I had left of choice felt fragile and meaningless.
He leaned against the counter, arms crossed, studying me like a predator assessing prey, but there was something else too… a flicker of something softer behind his sharp gaze. "You're trembling," he observed, not unkindly.
"I—It's nothing," I muttered, my voice cracking. I wanted to lie. I always lied. But the truth clawed at my throat: I was terrified. Not of him—not really—but of what came next.
He took a step closer. "It's not nothing. You're afraid. And you should be. But fear doesn't make you weak. It's what makes you human. Or at least… it should."
I swallowed hard, feeling my chest tighten. Humans. I had long forgotten what that meant. The nights spent on cold floors, dancing on stage my whole life and the endless days sleeping with alphas—they had stripped me down to nothing but survival instincts.
Kang tilted his head, his eyes glinting in the dim light. "I know you think you're just a body, a tool. But you're more than that. You have fire, even if you've buried it. I saw it the moment I watched you dance."
"Fire?" I whispered, scoffing bitterly. "That's a lie. Fire doesn't survive here."
"Maybe not in the world you came from," he said softly, stepping closer. "But it's in you. And I don't plan to let it die."
Something in me—some part I had forgotten—flickered uncomfortably. Desire? Hope? I couldn't name it. It was dangerous to feel anything, yet I couldn't help the way my pulse quickened.
He crouched slightly, lowering his voice. "Look at me, Seojoon. Not as your master, not as the one who bought you. Just… look."
I hesitated, my throat tight. Then I did. Our eyes met, and the intensity was almost unbearable. For the first time, someone wasn't looking at me with lust, hunger, or control—they were looking with… interest. With something like concern.
"Do you know what I want?" he asked quietly. "Not just your obedience. Not just your body. I want you to remember that there's a world outside that bar. That there's something you can be beyond pain."
"I don't know if I can," I admitted, the words barely above a whisper. The fear, the doubt, the years of conditioning—they all rose up like a tidal wave.
"Then we'll take it slow," he said simply, stepping back. "I'm not in a hurry. I don't need you to trust me immediately. But…" His voice hardened slightly. "I won't allow anyone to hurt you like that again. Not me. Not anyone."
I blinked rapidly, trying to process the mixture of threat and promise. My mind screamed that I should run, that no one could ever protect me. And yet… part of me wanted to believe him. Just a little.
He moved toward me again, slower this time, like he was measuring the distance. "You'll get used to it. The rules, the walls, the structure. It won't be easy. It might hurt. But you won't be alone."
Alone. The word made me flinch. I had spent years believing that loneliness was my only companion. And now, someone was offering me… something else. Something terrifying.
"Do you… want me to start training you?" he asked finally, eyes sharp.
I froze, the old instinct kicking in: training meant pain. Control. Ownership. And yet, beneath that, a flicker of curiosity, almost hope, whispered in my mind.
"I… I don't know," I admitted, my voice trembling. "I've never… I've never been taught anything but how to survive."
"Then that's exactly where we start," he said firmly. "I'll guide you. You'll learn. And maybe, in time, you'll remember who you really are."
The words hung in the air, heavy and intoxicating. I wanted to fight. I wanted to deny him. But some hidden part of me, the part that had survived every nightmare, every abuse, every betrayal, wanted—no, needed—to believe him.
And in that moment, I understood something terrifying: I was no longer just his property. I was becoming something more. Something dangerous. Something alive.
Kang stepped back and folded his arms, eyes scanning me like he had memorized every twitch of muscle, every flicker of fear. "Rest tonight. Sleep if you can. Tomorrow… we begin," he said quietly.
I nodded, though my body felt frozen. My mind was spinning, recalling the bar, the cold floors, the harsh hands, the nights I thought I'd die—yet here I was, alive. Alive, and somehow, under his gaze, feeling… something I hadn't felt in years. Safety? Trust? I didn't know. I didn't want to know.
But the truth seeped in anyway. "I… I don't know if I can," I whispered, barely audible.
"Then we'll take it one step at a time," he said, and there was a strange softness in his voice. "I'll make sure you survive. Not just the training… not just the rules… but everything."
My chest tightened. My hands trembled. For the first time in what felt like forever, I felt something else—fragile, dangerous, confusing. Something I wasn't ready to name.
Kang's eyes softened ever so slightly, and for a moment, I thought I saw a flicker of care there, buried beneath the control, the ownership, the power he wielded effortlessly.
I swallowed, staring at the floor. "Why… why do you care?" I asked, my voice breaking.
He stepped closer, but not too close. His shadow fell across me. "Because I've seen what they've done to you," he said quietly. "And I won't let it happen again. Not to you. Not to anyone I choose to care about."
The words settled over me like a weight I wasn't sure I could bear—or a shield I didn't know I deserved. My throat constricted, my vision blurred. I wanted to run, to scream, to deny it. And yet… something in me wanted to believe him.
He moved to leave, pausing at the door. "Sleep well. You'll need your strength."
And then he was gone, the click of the door echoing in the empty apartment.
I sank to the floor, hugging my knees, letting the tears come freely. Fear, anger, relief, confusion—they all mixed together, blurring into something raw and undefinable.
I wasn't sure what tomorrow would bring. I wasn't sure I was ready. But for the first time in years, I felt a spark—small, dangerous, terrifying. A spark that whispered maybe… just maybe… I could be more than what I had been forced to survive.
And even though it scared me more than I could put into words, I clung to that spark.
Because in that darkness, it was the only thing I had left.