Ten o'clock in the morning.
Kang Jihan crossed the "Mior" lobby unhurriedly, as if stepping through the scenery of someone else's dream: marble columns reflected the cold light of the "High Line," crystal chandeliers shimmered like pieces of frozen time. The air smelled of expensive wood, pool chlorine, and was too sterile for a living city.
He approached the reception desk, slid his key card across the glossy surface—golden, with the engraved number 1703. Seventeenth floor. That very room.
His fingers trembled when he swiped the card over the lock in the elevator. The irony was almost comical: three weeks ago, he had been here with Saela. And the scent of her blood still lived somewhere beneath his skin.
To what extent has Ryu Sungyeon studied me? A real psycho.
The elevator carried him up, softly, silently; the doors parted, releasing him into the corridor where the lamp light shimmered gold, and the carpet muffled footsteps. Lyran outside the windows flowed in the fog, pale, like an old photograph left in the rain.
The room greeted him with a familiar warmth. White walls, a panoramic window, the smell of a body—not alien, not his own, just human.
He took off his gloves, turned on the light, and called reception:
— Room 1703. Red wine, the most expensive you have.
The operator's voice was lifeless, mechanical—everything he liked. Alcohol helped people relax, and helped Class V play their role. His body remembered how to pretend to be alive.
Knock-knock.
He startled, expecting the waiter, and opened the door with a polite, slightly forced smile.
But standing on the threshold was not the waiter.
Ryu Sungyeon. Tall, flawlessly put together, in a black suit and a dazzling white shirt; his tie knot perfect. In his hands—a bottle of wine and two glasses.
— It seems you ordered this, — he said calmly. — I met the waiter in the elevator.
— Thank you... — Jihan blinked.
— What difference does it make, anyway, — Sungyeon dismissed, walking into the room as if it were his own home.
A chill emanated from him—the kind that arises in the presence of a person too self-assured, too precise in every movement.
— You came early, — Jihan noted, maintaining his tone.
— I don't like being late, — he replied. — I didn't know Kang Jihan cared so much about setting the mood before seduction. You only forgot to light the candles.
A subtle, almost intellectual mockery sounded in his voice.
— Do you really want to see this through? No "buts"?
— Of course, — Sungyeon smirked. — From the moment you wrote, all I've done is wait.
A smile without warmth.
— Were you always like this? Why did you plan to marry Saela then?
Sungyeon froze. His face remained calm, but the air in the room chilled, as if someone had turned down the oxygen.
— What?
Jihan felt he had crossed a line.
— I'm sorry, I just...
— "Noona"? — Sungyeon repeated, and suddenly laughed—loudly, unevenly, almost insanely.
The laughter echoed in the glass, in Jihan's heart, in his own pulse.
When it subsided, Sungyeon asked dryly:
— Mr. Kang, how old are you?
— Twenty-five, — automatically.
— I mean—for real.
— One hundred eighty, — quietly. — My body stopped long ago.
Sungyeon took off his jacket, slowly walked around him, watching intently, like an art critic examining an exhibit. His gaze slid over Jihan's skin cautiously, yet sharply, like a blade.
— And how old are you, Mr. Ryu?
— Younger than you, — he smirked. — At least in spirit.
He poured the wine, and bloody reflections of the lamp danced in the glasses.
— Sit down. Since you ordered it—drink.
Jihan sat opposite him.
— Do you drink?
— No. Let the one who ordered it drink.
He stared straight, without blinking, and suddenly asked quietly:
— You wanted to get me drunk, didn't you?
— No.
— Then why are you trembling?
The glass in Jihan's hand shook. The wine rippled.
— Flushed from the wine, — Jihan tried to smile.
— Flushed... — Sungyeon repeated, as if tasting the word.
The silence thickened. Jihan understood: Gaze wouldn't work. Sungyeon was too strong, too composed. Any attempt—and he would kill him.
Sungyeon stood up.
— You don't have to turn off the light. I prefer to see.
— As you wish.
— Let's be honest. You came for answers. I—to finish the game.
He stepped closer. The world narrowed down to the two of them. An unbearably hot breath radiated from the human body.
Jihan reached out almost unconsciously—and at that very moment, a sharp movement: Sungyeon's fingers closed on his chin. Long, cold, smelling of iron.
— Interesting, — he whispered, — where does your game end and the truth begin?
Jihan didn't have time to answer—fingers entered his mouth, sharply, painfully. The taste of blood. Salt. Iron. His body flared up.
He couldn't stand it. The Class V instinct took over. He clenched his lips, sucked the fingers in, felt the taste and the heat, like an electric shock. Consciousness swam.
— I knew it, — Sungyeon said quietly.
Jihan looked up. Sungyeon looked calm, without anger—with understanding.
Everything collapsed. Jihan recoiled, gasping for air.
— Don't... touch me, — hoarsely.
Sungyeon was silent. His gaze wavered, and for a moment something human flashed in it—surprise or concern.
— You're insane, — Jihan breathed out, turning towards the door. — I'll drink some water and leave.
He returned a minute later—with wet lips, red eyes. He approached, looming over the sitting Sungyeon, his hands resting on his shoulders. The pressure—even, calm, almost affectionate.
— Relax, — he said softly. — I'll finish this myself.
His eyes flashed crimson. His voice became warm, languid, like velvet.
— You will forget. Me, this evening, everything. You came—and realized you made a mistake. You couldn't. You simply left. This will be better.
He let go. Sungyeon's gaze dimmed, his body trembled, like a person waking up in a strange life.
Jihan quickly got dressed, turned back at the door.
— And by the way, — he said quietly. — Don't stick your fingers in the mouth of someone you don't understand. It's more dangerous than it seems.
He walked out, closing the door.
Sungyeon sat on the edge of the bed for a long time, staring into space. The world blurred, like a fogged mirror. On his finger—a thin line of a bite; a drop of blood rolled down his skin, leaving a scarlet trail.
— ...Wait, — he whispered.
He blinked. Something wasn't right. Thoughts scattered, but between them remained a shadow—a name, a taste, a gaze.
Kang Jihan.