#anything and it’s not necessarily false

[kyunghwannie]

"Midnight Static, Cherry Heart"

Minatozaki Sana x Male Reader

➤ Genre: Psychological Horror Story, Parasocial Love, Soft Obsession, False Stalking, Orchestration/Manipulation

➤Teaser: A voice through the static. A story through the night. A fan through the fear. In the silence between words, she heard you. In the stillness behind fame, you found her.

➤ Note: It's not necessarily a smut. But i just had this idea in my mind so i wrote it. You all should let me know if i should make a part 2. Sorry if the ending feels rushed a little. I was just scared of 1000 block limit

Your late-night radio show, "Whispers After One", is unlike anything else on air. You tell spine-chilling stories — true crime, ancient folklore, and listener-submitted paranormal tales — always with a subtle emotional angle that hits deeper than just scares. Your charm? You never show your face, but you always end your broadcasts with:

"Remember, not all ghosts haunt… some just wait to be heard."

Sana has been a fan for years. TWICE’s members often find her listening alone with earphones in the dark, smiling one moment and holding back tears the next. What no one knows? She’s written to your show before — using a private alias. You once read her story, “The Mirror Girl,” and your emotional insight helped her face a lingering trauma from trainee days. That moment? She fell harder than she should have.

=================================

The air outside was cold enough to bite through my coat, but Seoul at 1:47 a.m. had a strange kind of stillness that felt warmer than it should. Maybe that’s what happens when you spend every night talking to ghosts.

I adjusted my scarf, "Mic check, one, two." The static flickered softly in my headphones — the pre-show hum that always gave me chills. Not fear. Something more like... home.

I slid into the chair inside Studio B, a dimly lit booth tucked behind a noraebang that most people didn’t even know still operated. The light flickered above me once — like it always did when the stories got a little too real. I smiled to myself, "Another night, another whisper."

The red light blinked on. Live.

"Good evening, insomniacs, wanderers, and believers in things that go bump when no one’s watching," I spoke slowly, like the air around me listened. "You’re listening to Whispers After One. And tonight... let’s start with a mirror."

I reached for the first letter. The handwriting was neat, feminine. The envelope? Unlabeled, but I knew this script. Elegant, playful. Familiar.

Inside was a short story.

A girl alone in a hotel room in Fukuoka. A mirror facing her bed that she didn’t remember being there when she checked in. And the voice she heard through the radio — hers, but not quite.

I frowned, leaning in. "Our first story comes from someone who goes by... ‘S.’"

Something in my chest tightened. "Let's listen closely. There’s more than one reflection here tonight."

The paper felt oddly cold in my hand. Not the room. Just the letter. I held it under the dim studio lamp as if warming it would make the story feel less… alive.

I began reading. "February 13th, Room 908. I remember the sound of the hallway more than I remember the room."

The static behind my voice filled the space between her words, like it wanted to interrupt — or warn. "The air conditioner was broken. Not off, not on — broken. It made this sound. Like… breathing. But from the ceiling. Rhythmic. Too human to ignore. Not human enough to follow."

My breath hitched. I wasn’t the only one. Even in the soundproof booth, I swore I heard my producer shift uncomfortably in the adjacent room. "The mirror was across from the bed. I don't remember it when I walked in. But it was there when I woke up."

I paused. Read the sentence again silently.

The mirror appeared after she fell asleep? "I didn’t look at it for hours. Not because I was scared. But because I was convinced… it was looking at me first."

I cleared my throat. The studio was suddenly too quiet. "Some say a mirror at night is like an unanswered call. It reflects — but only what you expect to see," I said, letting my tone dip softer. "Others say… it’s a doorway. Especially if it’s not yours."

I tapped my notes — not because I needed to, but because my fingers were getting stiff. Tense. I continued reading. "At 3:12 a.m., the breathing from the ceiling stopped." The timestamp. Exact. Like a scar on the memory. "I looked at the mirror. My reflection blinked twice. Then didn’t."

I looked up, as if someone else were in the room with me. No one was. Just the hum of the equipment. The flicker of the ON AIR light.

I exhaled slowly. Deliberately. "There’s a psychological phenomenon," I murmured into the mic, more to myself than anyone, "called the Strange-Face Illusion. When you stare into a mirror in low light, your facial features begin to distort. Your brain, overwhelmed by sensory adaptation, starts to fill in the blanks. You begin to see something that isn't you. Something waiting behind you."

I tapped the envelope with my nail. "But in some stories… it’s not your brain."

A moment of silence. Then I finished her letter. "I left the hotel before sunrise. The front desk told me Room 908 hadn’t been booked in three years. They said the last guest broke the mirror with their bare hands and fled. I looked at my phone. I took a photo of the mirror before I left. There was a crack."

I stopped. Checked the back of the letter. One more line. "But I didn’t break it."

The air in the studio shifted. Not physically. Something colder. Internal. Like memory was a temperature. I leaned back and spoke low, as though she was still listening. "S," I whispered, "thank you for the story. Wherever you are now, I hope you're sleeping somewhere without reflections."

A beat of silence. Then the next track queued up — eerie piano in a minor key, soft static underneath. Background comfort. But it wasn’t comforting anymore.

I stared at the ON AIR sign, still red.

Still glowing. And in the glass window in front of me, I saw my reflection blink twice. Then didn’t. I let the silence stretch. Not the kind that’s empty. The kind that listens. I leaned in again, closer to the mic. Quieter now. Warmer. "If you’re still out there, S…"

I let her name rest in the air like a held breath. "It must’ve been terrifying. That moment you felt like something knew you better than you knew yourself. Not the mirror. Not the room. But the silence afterward."

I paused, voice softer. "Sometimes, we survive the strange things. But we don’t talk about them because we’re afraid they weren’t strange. We’re afraid they were us."

The red light above me glowed steady. "But I see you."

My voice faltered just for a second — not from fear. From sincerity. "You didn’t break the mirror. But maybe you wanted to. Maybe you wanted to break the version of you that stares back, quietly pretending to be okay."

I closed my eyes. "Whoever you are… I hope you’re not just surviving now. I hope someone’s voice is making you feel safe enough to sleep again."

I pulled away from the mic. Not a performance. Not a sendoff. Just a wish.

Somewhere, across the city.

In a quiet room with warm blankets and dim lights, Sana clutched her earbuds tighter.

Her knees curled to her chest. Her back pressed to the cool wall of her bedroom. The other girls had long since fallen asleep, but she stayed — like she always did — awake for him.

The voice she’d listened to for years. The only voice that somehow always seemed to know what her heart hadn’t said out loud. Tears slid silently down her cheeks. Not sobs. Not pain. Just the gentle kind of ache that comes from being understood too clearly. "You didn’t break the mirror," he’d said.

But she had. Not literally. But in every way that counted. Back then, in that room, on tour — after her ankle injury, after the comment sections got too loud, after she’d stared too long at herself wondering if she still belonged.

She had written that letter in the airport. Scrawled it with shaking hands. Never thinking he’d actually read it. And yet. "I see you." Her lips trembled. She whispered into the air, not caring if it reached anyone: "I see you too."

Her hand reached for her phone. She didn’t open any app. She just stared at the paused live stream. At the glowing icon. At the voice that somehow always found her — even when she didn’t know how to call for help.

And this time, with a heart full of something more than fear, she whispered again:

"Not all ghosts haunt…" A pause. A heartbeat. "Some wait to be heard."

The ON AIR light glowed again.

My voice returned. Lower. Measured. Not to scare — but to let the weight of quiet truths settle on the listeners' chests. "I got a lot of messages about last night."

I didn’t say thank you. Not because I wasn’t grateful. But because this part wasn’t gratitude. It was confession. "A lot of you wrote about ‘S.’ About the mirror. About the room. About how you couldn’t sleep after."

I let out a faint breath through my nose. "Some of you said it was the scariest story you’ve heard. Others said it reminded you of something. Something you couldn’t quite explain. And a few of you… said it made you cry."

I tapped the edge of the mic with my knuckle. Once. "Fear does that. The real kind. It doesn’t scream at you. It whispers. And then it waits. And then it watches how long you’ll pretend it’s not there."

I looked around my studio. Empty. But not lonely. "I’ve got a lot of stories. I’ve read thousands. But tonight, I want to tell you one of mine."

My throat felt dry. I reached for water. Didn’t drink. "When I was sixteen, I stopped sleeping for two weeks straight. No real reason. Nothing happened. At least — that’s what I kept telling people."

The music under my voice changed — subtle strings, no melody. Just enough to remind the listener that the world was still turning. "I started seeing someone in the corner of my room. A girl. She never moved. Never blinked. Just stood there, in the edge of my peripheral vision. Always after 3:00 a.m. Always at the exact moment I closed my eyes to fall asleep."

I paused. Long enough that listeners might think something went wrong with the signal. "You know what’s weird?"

I asked softly. "I wasn’t scared. Not at first. I thought I was lonely. I thought maybe… maybe she was too."

My lips twitched into the ghost of a smile. "It got worse. She started standing closer. Every night, just a step more. I still didn’t look directly at her. Part of me thought that if I acknowledged her, she’d vanish. And I didn’t want to be alone again."

There it was — the line. The one between paranormal and personal. And I crossed it with the next words. "One night, I woke up to find my pillow damp. Not wet like sweat. Damp. Like someone had been crying on it."

The silence that followed felt brittle. "I finally turned my head. Looked right at the corner."

Another pause. My voice dropped barely above a whisper. "She wasn’t there."

I swallowed. "But my desk chair was turned toward me. And there was a strand of black hair caught on the cushion."

I let those words settle like dust on the listeners' skin. "I never saw her again. The hair disappeared the next morning. So did the sleeplessness. But something stayed."

I touched the back of my neck. "To this day, I still can’t fall asleep unless I leave my chair facing the wall."

I exhaled slowly. "I don’t know if she was a ghost. A dream. A hallucination. Or just some part of me I couldn’t carry anymore."

Then, quieter: "But maybe that’s the real horror. That sometimes, we create ghosts… just to have someone who stays."

The piano returned — faint, distorted like it was playing from a cassette that had been underwater. I leaned back. "Wherever you are tonight… whether you’re S, or someone like her, or someone like me… I hope the silence is softer now."

The music played gently underneath, carrying your voice like a lantern across the dark. The air in the studio felt a little thinner. I tapped the mic twice. Just habit. My voice came slow this time, almost reluctant. "I wasn't planning to share this one. But tonight feels like the right night."

Soft static curled under my voice like invisible fog. "I was nineteen. Staying in Daegu for a few weeks — trying to write, clear my head, play games. There's a place called Top PC — it was on the upper floor of a mall."

A short pause. A shift in tone. Memory clawing its way forward. "That day, I was distracted. Took the wrong elevator. Got off on a construction floor by mistake. Concrete everywhere. Rebar. The ceiling open to pipes. It wasn’t finished yet."

"Worse, the power cut right then. Elevators froze. So I had to find the stairwell."

A beat. My words slowed. "And that’s when I heard it. Footsteps. Not heavy, not loud. Just... wrong."

I remembered the sound clearly. Leather soles on raw concrete. Not rushed. Not careful. Like they belonged there. "I hid behind a cement pillar. Just in case. You don’t want to get caught trespassing on active construction."

"That’s when I saw them."

The room got quieter. Even the hum of my computer seemed to hush. "A man and a boy. The man wore this... long overcoat. Had a cape. Not a superhero cape — no, this was like a funeral coat. The boy looked about ten. Pale. Quiet. Both of them… out of place."

I exhaled — sharp and short. Like I needed to let the weight out before it sank me. "They were standing by the edge. No railing. Just open air. You could see the whole street below. They weren’t scared. They were holding hands."

The next words scraped through me. "And then… they jumped."

Even now, years later, it tasted like rust in my mouth. "I stood there. Frozen. My ears were ringing, and it wasn't just fear. It was the kind that rearranges your bones from the inside out."

"When I found the stairs, I ran. Two at a time, barely breathing. When I reached the ground floor, there was already a crowd. Murmurs. People pointing."

My voice cracked just slightly. "But I was the most horrified person there. You want to know why?"

Silence. Then: "Because on the pavement, there was only one body. The boy."

A long breath. "No sign of the man. No blood. No cape. No coat. The security footage? Mall said it just... glitched. That floor’s cameras were always faulty."

I let the silence sit. "I still don’t know what I saw. Maybe he was a ghost. Maybe he was something worse. Or maybe... maybe he was never there. Just a shadow that borrowed a shape. Maybe it wanted someone to follow."

The words hovered, then landed softly. "Some people think ghosts are the ones who haven’t moved on. But sometimes, the scariest ones are those who help others cross... and vanish after."

My voice shifted. A little warmer. But sad. "That day changed me. I never looked at rooftops the same way again. Not out of fear. Out of grief. Grief that maybe, even in death, some people are still trying to hold hands."

Soft, somber piano drifted in — slow chords stretched thin like foggy breath on glass. "So, to anyone listening tonight... if you feel like you’re standing on a ledge, even metaphorically... don’t hold a ghost’s hand."

"Hold someone real. Even if it's just a voice on the radio."

The music faded.

And far away, in a darkened, quiet dorm room… Sana blinked.

She was sitting on her bed, one knee drawn up to her chest, earbuds still nestled deep.

The rest of TWICE had long gone to sleep. Her phone screen was dark, but she didn’t press it again. She didn’t need to. The words were echoing in her chest. Her hand tightened around the edge of her duvet. She knew your name. Your real face. Not just the voice on the radio.

But this… this wasn’t parasocial, was it?

This felt different. Not admiration. Not even attraction. No, it was deeper than that. It was the way your stories mirrored things she never told anyone. Things she only felt. In the hollow parts. The spaces between comebacks and cameras and fan signs.

Your stories understood loneliness. Saw it for what it was. Not a weakness. But a shape. A presence. Something you could touch. Her lips moved silently, repeating your last line. "Hold someone real… even if it’s just a voice on the radio."

She let out a trembling breath, then tucked her phone under her pillow like a secret. Her heart beat faster, not with fear. But with a growing ache she didn’t have a name for. Yet.

Three days later.

The studio smelled like coffee, sweat, and soundproof foam — the holy trinity of late-night radio.

I leaned back in my chair, legs stretched out, sipping on a convenience store latte that had no right being called coffee. Beside me, Dokyeom sat cross-legged on the floor, laptop on his lap, balancing a slice of pizza on his knee like he was training for a culinary circus.

"You’ve got the emotional depth of a ghost marriage ceremony," he said around a mouthful of cheese, "and yet you still manage to sound hotter than 90% of idol rappers when you talk about death. I swear, your voice is wasted on sanity."

"Was that a compliment or a curse?" I asked.

"Both. Like ramen at 2 a.m." I snorted. This was normal. This was safe. Dokyeom clicked his tongue as he trimmed the last segment of last night’s episode. "Hey, the story of the suicide floor? Trending. Over 90k shares. People are comparing it to urban legends now. Some even claim they saw similar things in Daegu too. You’ve basically created a cult."

"That’s not comforting." "No, but it is brandable."

We both laughed — loud and easy. That kind of laugh that makes you forget for a moment that you speak to ghosts on air. Then he paused. Eyes on his screen. His mouth twisted like he bit into a lemon he didn’t expect.

"Uh... so." He set his laptop down and rubbed the back of his neck. "I was supposed to tell you this earlier, but I forgot. Because, you know, pizza." I gave him a look. "What did you do?"

"Nothing! Technically." He flashed his usual innocent-grimace hybrid. "Okay, so... you got an offer."

I sat up straighter. "From who?"

He picked up his phone and flipped the screen toward me.

JYP Entertainment.

Subject: Collaboration Opportunity — Joint Radio Hosting Pilot with TWICE Member

I blinked. Then blinked again. "You’re kidding."

"Nope." Dokyeom grinned, doing little jazz hands. "Apparently, someone high up loved your voice. Said it’d pair well with one of their girls. Emotional contrast or something. They’re suggesting a co-hosted, biweekly late-night segment with a TWICE member."

I stared at the screen. Cold air crept in under my hoodie like a warning. "...Which member?"

"That’s the thing," he said. "They didn’t name her in the email. Just said she’s familiar with your work. Big fan. Requested you, specifically. That’s all."

I didn’t answer right away. My mind drifted — uninvited — to a dorm room late at night, a girl with earbuds in, lips repeating my words. "Do they know what kind of stories I tell?" I muttered. "I'm not exactly your average feel-good bedtime narrator."

"Yeah, but that’s the appeal." Dokyeom shrugged. "You don’t coddle fear. You hug it like an ex you still miss."

I gave him a deadpan look. "You need therapy."

"So do you." We laughed again, but this time it felt... softer. Offbeat.

A TWICE member. Requested me. Me. The faceless voice behind the mic. She already knew me. But I didn’t know which she. And somehow, that made it eerier than any ghost story I’d ever told. "So?" Dokyeom asked, stretching his legs. "You gonna accept?"

I didn’t respond right away. I just looked down at the email. My thumb hovered over the reply button. "Let’s meet in person," the draft line read. And under it, the signature of someone I hadn’t even seen yet — only felt. I scrolled through the email again, lips tightening. "They know a lot about me."

Dokyeom looked up, still chewing. "Like what?"

"Full name, real name. My Daegu years. Even my university major. They even mentioned the exact rooftop I broadcasted from during my early days. That was never public."

His chewing slowed. He tilted his head like a golden retriever hearing a flute for the first time. "That’s... specific."

"Yeah."

We exchanged a look. The fluorescent lights above flickered once. Maybe it was a coincidence. Maybe it was bad wiring. Maybe it wasn’t. "Creepy accurate, huh?" he muttered. "You think they pulled data from our archives?"

"That rooftop stream was analog. I didn't even archive the audio. Only a few dozen people heard it live. One of those bootleg setups, remember?"

Dokyeom rubbed his chin like a fake detective in a sitcom. "Well, JYPE is rich, bro. They probably have KCSI or something. Like, K-pop CIA."

I chuckled. "Right. And TWICE agents sneak through air vents to find hidden mixtapes."

"Don’t joke," he said, pointing a pizza crust at me like it was a holy relic. "Do you know how many people would kill to know who you are? You're basically Korea’s haunted pen pal. You say ‘goodnight’ and people cry. You sneeze and someone makes a fanedit."

I rolled my eyes but smiled. It was comforting how Dokyeom always tethered things back to reality. "Our station’s been careful, though," I said. "They never leaked my image, even internally. I trust them with that."

"Exactly." He leaned back on his elbows. "So if this got greenlit, it wasn’t from a leak. It was... chosen. Deliberately."

I looked back at the email. The words blurred for a second, like the screen was breathing. A part of me felt like I was being watched, not offered.

Dokyeom whistled low. "It’s like you got recruited into a movie or something. Mysterious late-night voice guy teams up with world-famous idol. What could go wrong?"

"That sentence alone should be illegal."

He cackled. "Oh, c’mon. You’ll be fine. You’ve danced with shadows and talked ghosts into therapy. What’s one idol with a fan crush?"

I paused. Thought of the last story I read. The girl who mailed her horror like a secret prayer. The way her pain bled through the paper. The way my voice cracked reading it. No. This wasn’t just a fan. There was something deeper.

"I’ll do it." I finally said, eyes still on the screen. "Atta boy." Dokyeom raised his slice like a champagne toast. "Let’s make romance horror again."

Interlude: Behind the Curtain

"You're sure about this?" the manager asked again, voice tight with concern as they held the tablet out, list of vetted radio personalities glowing on-screen. Sana didn’t even glance at it.

She sat with one leg crossed over the other, sipping from a cold bottle of banana milk like she was lounging in a café—not making an unprecedented talent request to the higher-ups of JYP Entertainment. "Positive," she said with a disarming grin. The manager blinked. "But you haven't seen the shortlist—"

"I don’t need to." She tilted her head, letting her ponytail sway slightly. There was nothing unusual in her tone. Nothing demanding. Just lighthearted, playful… and absolute. "Just... him."

The manager gave a nervous chuckle, scratching behind their ear. "You’re usually the most bubbly during planning meetings. Joking, teasing, making faces… But this time—Sana-ssi, you’re being unusually quiet."

"Am I?" Sana turned to face them fully, resting her chin on her palm. She smiled. But the smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.

The manager swallowed and nodded. "I'll talk to the board." She beamed, like a ray of sunlight. "Thank you." But the manager left the room with a strange cold creeping up their spine.

Late Evening – TWICE Dorm

The air smelled like grilled sweet potatoes and softener-drenched laundry. The kitchen was warm and softly lit, the hum of the fridge the only sound as Dahyun padded in to grab water. She stopped when she saw Sana, arms crossed on the counter, head down, a dreamy smile curling at her lips.

"Sana-unnie?" Dahyun asked, blinking. "You okay?"

Sana slowly turned her head, eyes shining like she’d just woken from a beautiful dream. "Mmm. Just thinking about his voice."

"Huh?" Dahyun opened the fridge.

"The radio host. You’ve listened too, right?"

"Yeah, a few episodes. Pretty popular these days." She took out a bottle of water. "Creepy but... poetic?"

Sana nodded slowly. "That’s what I like about him. He doesn’t try to scare you. He just... sees through things. People, pain, moments. It’s like he walks through the fog and comes back carrying the heart of it."

Dahyun froze with the fridge still open.

"He read that letter someone wrote," Sana went on softly, fingers gently tracing circles on the countertop. "The one about the girl and the thing in her room. The way he spoke—"

She closed her eyes. "It felt like he knew her better than she knew herself. Like he didn’t need to see her face, or body, or even hear her real name. He felt her. And that’s rare, Dahyunnie. You know how rare that is?"

There was a pause. "In our world..." she whispered, "we’re always seen—but never really known. People adore us, but not really us. It’s filtered affection. Edited worship. But he... he could fall in love with a ghost. Isn’t that beautiful?"

Dahyun took a small step back, closing the fridge door slowly. She smiled softly, careful not to let it show too much concern. "Sounds like you really respect him, unnie."

"Mmm." Sana's eyes didn’t move from the counter. "Or maybe... I just want to know how it feels. To be loved without being looked at. Not as TWICE's Sana. Just as... someone."

Dahyun sipped her water and gave a quiet nod. But something inside her twisted—like a gentle hand pressing just a bit too hard against her ribs. A creeping realization she couldn’t put into words. Not yet. Not when Sana’s smile looked so warm...And yet so frighteningly far away.

Dahyun’s Monologue: A Flicker Beneath the Smile

I’ve always loved being around Sana-unnie. She’s warmth wrapped in laughter, flirtation turned into an art form. When things are too heavy, she floats. When we’re too tired to smile, she makes faces until we do. She’s one of the hearts that keep TWICE beating. And I’m the younger one who leans on her…

But lately— I’ve been watching her lean into something else. It’s scary when the ones who make the light start finding comfort in the dark.

I used to think parasocial love was a one-way street. We walk it all the time, right? Fans fall for the image, not the person. They dream of us, not knowing who we are—just what we represent. We live with it. Smile through it. Learn to separate the screaming from sincerity. It's normal. Just part of the job.

But Sana-unnie…She’s walking that street now too. In reverse. The way she talks about him—the radio host. She doesn’t admire him. She knows him. Or wants to. She clings to his words like she’s been starved for them her whole life. Not because they’re scary. Because they see her.

And for the first time, I felt that weird glass wall—the one that usually separates us from them—It flipped. And now I’m on the other side, watching someone I care for…Turn into the kind of listener we protect each other from.

But what can I do? She’s still Sana-unnie. Still bubbly. Still playful. Still brings me my favorite drinks when I’m stressed. She still laughs loud. Still hugs tight. But I see it now. There’s something behind her eyes that doesn’t belong to any of us. Like she’s somewhere else.

I’m scared. Not of him. Not of her. I’m scared of the gap. That space between hearing and being heard. Between wanting and obsession. And what it does to people—even the ones with the brightest smiles.

Because even stars can fall. And I don’t know how to catch her...If I’m the one standing on the ground.

Dorm Hallway – Just Past Midnight

The soft hum of the fridge was the only sound left in the silence after their late snack.

Sana placed her cup in the sink, still smiling faintly—like her lips remembered an old joke but her eyes had long moved on. She turned to leave, slowly, her socked feet brushing against the floor.

"Unnie." Dahyun’s voice wasn’t loud, but it stopped her. Stilled her. Sana turned her head, only slightly, but didn’t speak.

"What are you feeling… really?" Dahyun asked gently. "About this show. About... him." A silence. Not the kind that suffocates. The kind that waits.

Sana finally turned fully, fingers fiddling with the hem of her hoodie. She looked down, almost like she wasn’t sure if she was awake or dreaming.

"I don’t know," she said softly, with a laugh that barely qualified as one. "It’s like... when he speaks, it’s not just stories. It’s like he’s reaching through the static and saying something only I understand. Like he’s whispering to the version of me even I forgot existed."

Dahyun took a step forward, cautious. The unease in her gut pulsed again. "Sana-unnie... you know we’ve all heard him. He’s great. Really. But—"

"It’s not about him, Dahyun." Sana’s voice trembled slightly, but not from fear. From clarity. "It’s about... finally hearing someone who doesn't ask me to be pretty. Or fun. Or Sana from TWICE.

It’s just someone who speaks, and for the first time, I don't have to perform to be seen." Her eyes glistened. But they weren’t teary. They were hungry. "I feel like… he already knows me. And if I met him, really met him… he'd know the parts even I locked away."

Dahyun's breath caught. "Unnie..."

Sana blinked, slow, like she was waking up from a trance—or stepping deeper into one. Then she smiled. Wide. Dreamy. "You know what it feels like when millions love you but not a single one actually knows you?"

"He does. Somehow, he does."

She turned and walked down the hallway. The air felt colder. Dahyun didn’t follow. She just stood there, in the hum of the kitchen light, goosebumps creeping up her arms, wondering—what if love, when unheard, doesn’t fade…but grows louder in silence?

=================================

[The next Night, Late Night Radio Show – 1:03 AM, Station 10.7]

The red light blinked softly. Live. My fingers hovered over the volume dial as I leaned toward the mic, my voice dipping low and even. “And we’re back. Tonight… we received another letter. From ‘S.’”

I paused. “This one’s not like the others.”

The printed pages on my desk were warm from the lights above, but the words felt cold. “It’s titled: The One I Never Got to Say Goodbye To.”

I began to read.

He was the kind of quiet that filled empty rooms, the kind of presence that made silence feel like company. He worked behind voices—made others sound better, heard everything and said little. He had a laugh like the world hadn’t quite broken him yet.

I used to walk by the station’s glass lobby at night. Lights on. Shadows moving. I’d watch him, even when I wasn’t supposed to. Not out of obsession. Not at first. It started as curiosity. How someone could look so alive... just talking into a void.

Sometimes, I think I loved him before I knew his name.

I wanted to tell him. That his stories healed something in me. That his voice made loneliness feel less fatal. But I never wrote in. I was too scared to be another voice in a sea of fans. Too scared to break the illusion.

Then the accident happened. Not to him. To me. A slip in my world that made it impossible to reach his. I disappeared. Like a radio losing signal. And he kept talking, never knowing I had gone quiet.

But lately, I’ve come back. Re-tuned. I listen again. From the same distance. But it’s different now.

Because I don’t want to just listen anymore. I want him to know— I was always there. Watching. Hearing. Waiting.

Not for the end of the story. But for the part where the story finally sees me.

I stopped. The booth was dead silent. My fingers trembled faintly on the armrest. “That… wasn’t horror,” I finally said. “But it might be the most chilling story we’ve ever received.”

There was a weight in my chest. Not fear. Not romance. Something stranger. A whisper behind the ears that you were never truly alone. I adjusted the mic, speaking softer now. More vulnerable.

“If you're out there, S… whoever you are…I hope you’re okay. I hope whatever accident tore you away didn’t take all of you.”

“And if it did—I’ll keep the light on.”

[Meanwhile – Sana’s POV – Dorm Room, 1:18 AM]

She sat cross-legged on her bed, laptop open, the red glow of the radio station’s live stream light flickering faintly across her face. The others were asleep. Dahyun’s faint breathing from the other room barely audible.

Sana leaned in closer to the screen, lips parted slightly.

“He read it…” she whispered. “He really read it.”

A small smile. But her fingers didn’t move. Neither did her eyes. She wasn’t crying. But she should’ve been. Because something inside her was… breaking, slowly. Not from sadness. From aching purpose.

The kind that makes people wait in the dark for years. The kind that makes someone write and rewrite the same story—until the right person sees it. Until he sees her. Her reflection in the dark screen was almost unrecognizable. Not because she looked different. But because she was looking at herself through someone else’s eyes. And she liked it. Too much.

The red “LIVE” light dimmed. I raised my hand subtly toward the glass—two fingers in the air. Dokyeom caught the cue instantly. He slid his hand over the console and queued the soft instrumental: something ambient, gentle, like wind brushing over sand.

“We’ll be right back,” I murmured into the mic, then flicked it off. I stood up, heart thudding too fast for such a quiet booth, and pushed open the soundproof door. Dokyeom was leaned back on his chair, one headphone off, chewing on sour gummies like it was just another night in paradise.

I walked straight to him, tension stiff in my neck, and leaned on the side of his chair. “Tell me I’m not crazy,” I said.

“What?” he mumbled, mouth half-full. “That was a damn good letter, man. Gave me chills.”

“No—listen.” I lowered my voice. “That story...the guy she described. The way she talked about the booth, the voice, watching him from outside?”

I looked around instinctively, though no one else was there. “She’s talking about me, right?”

He stopped chewing. His brows rose slightly. “You think she’s really stalking you?”

“I don’t know!” I ran a hand through my hair. “I mean, at first it felt like one of those poetic ‘your-voice-saved-me’ kind of things. But tonight? She talked about an accident...a disappearance...coming back...like she never left but I never noticed.”

Dokyeom stared at me, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Bro. You’re spiraling.”

“I’m not spiraling,” I snapped. “I’m just asking you if this feels...off. Weird. Personal. Like she’s talking to me. Only me.”

He looked at the mixing board for a second, as if the sliders could answer. Then, calmly, he replied. “Okay. Yeah. It's a little weird.”

I opened my mouth, but he raised a finger. “But, come on. We are a public show. Thousands tune in. It’s natural someone connects more than others. Besides, she didn’t say your name. Maybe it’s just really well-written projection.”

I exhaled slowly. The buzzing paranoia still clung to the back of my neck like static, but...his tone helped. I slumped onto the extra chair beside him, rubbing my eyes. “You ever feel like being seen too closely starts to feel like being watched?”

Dokyeom whistled low. “Damn. That’s deep. Put that in the next episode.”

I smirked despite myself. “I’m serious, man.”

He leaned back in his chair, tossing the empty gummy bag on the desk. “Look. If someone was stalking you, I’d be the first to notice. We track our mail-ins, our audio logs, station IPs. You know that. Nothing suspicious came through. No flagged user, no cross-location pings. The team would've told me.”

I nodded slowly, letting it sink in. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right.”

“Course I am.” He nudged my arm. “You’re just tired. That story hit weird. Your vibe's been off since she started writing in.”

“…Since the second letter.” Dokyeom raised an eyebrow. “The one about the train platform?”

I nodded. “The way she described how she kept her eyes on the guy’s back, not his face. That line—‘the back was enough. Because once you love someone enough, the front is too much to bear’.”

I looked down at my own hands, voice quieter. “That line didn’t feel made up.”

There was silence for a beat. Then Dokyeom sighed and looked at the screen showing the song timer ticking down. “We’ve got forty-three seconds till we’re back live.”

“Yeah,” I whispered. He looked at me sideways. “You okay?”

“…Not sure.” “Wanna skip the next mail-in?”

“No.” I sat up straighter, voice firm again. “If she’s watching… I want her to know I see her, too.”

The light turned red again.

[Three Weeks Later – JYPE Headquarters, 10:31 AM]

The elevator hummed quietly as I stood inside, hands in my coat pockets, eyes scanning the digital floor numbers rise with a soft ding. 10…11…12… Even now, I still wasn't sure what this whole thing was.

A talk show collaboration? Sure. But with an idol? An actual TWICE member? That part never stopped sounding strange.

The invitation was legit. The contracts came stamped, the clauses surprisingly flexible. Even Dokyeom had triple-checked the authenticity—JYPE’s media team themselves had reached out to our station.

But what still clung to my mind like fog was that no one told me which member wanted this. Not the producers. Not the writers. Not even Dokyeom. I had signed on blind.

The doors opened with a soft ding to the media floor. Glass walls, sunlight through beige blinds, quiet buzz of assistants pacing in heels or sneakers, coffee cups, and papers. I exhaled slowly.

"Morning, Mr. L/N." A young assistant in a sleek black outfit walked up, bowing slightly. She gestured politely toward a meeting room to the left. “The producer is waiting for you inside. The artist will join later.”

“Still keeping it a secret, huh?” I half-smiled. She returned a polite, neutral grin. “You'll understand soon, sir.”

Of course I will. I walked into the meeting room—clean, white, minimalist. One side was entirely glass, the other lined with posters of TWICE’s past eras. Some familiar. Some deeply nostalgic. Some… recent. Too recent.

"Ah, Y/N!" A warm voice pulled my thoughts. JYPE’s talk show producer stepped in—a middle-aged man in round glasses and a scarf that looked like it hadn’t left his neck since 2007. "We've been excited for this."

“You say that like I haven’t been dreading the mystery,” I muttered, settling in. He laughed. “That’s part of the charm. This is her idea, after all.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Right. ‘Her’. Still not giving me a name?”

“It’s… sensitive. Let’s just say, she was very specific.” “About… me?”

He paused. Adjusted his glasses. “About everything.”

I leaned back in the chair, eyes narrowing slightly. “Strange choice, though. An idol voluntarily choosing a psychological horror show host? Doesn’t exactly scream brand synergy.”

The man smiled faintly, but didn’t answer. I looked around the room again, eyes pausing on a framed photo of the “Feel Special” era. Nine girls, bright smiles, dreamy filters.

Which one was watching my show? Which one was listening in the dark?

[JYPE Media Room – Same Day, 10:42 AM]

The producer's voice echoed faintly as he flipped through a printed schedule. “She should be arriving any—”

The door clicked. I turned casually toward it, expecting perhaps a staffer, a stylist, or another assistant with iced coffee and paperwork.

But when the door opened—My breath caught.

She walked in.

Soft brown hair fell in delicate sheets over her shoulders, parted gently to one side, glowing faintly under the fluorescent light. Her ash-toned waves framed a gentle jawline and rested softly over the wide pointed collar of her blouse. The blouse itself—white, vintage, flared at the sleeves—peeked elegantly from underneath a sleeveless, beige A-line midi dress, tailored and subtle in its detail.

The overall palette was almost ethereal—soft pastels, neutral warmth. She looked like someone who had wandered out of a late spring romance film and simply strolled into this world. Cream ankle-strap heels clicked delicately with each step, dainty but confident.

“…Sana?” It slipped out of me before I realized I said her name aloud.

She smiled. And it wasn’t just a polite smile, or one meant for an audience. It was a quiet, knowing smile—one that pressed into her cheeks and warmed her gaze. Her eyes met mine and didn’t flinch. Didn’t waver. Like she had been waiting.

"Annyeonghaseyo." Her voice was soft but held the clarity of someone not used to hesitating. "I'm the one who requested this show with you."

I stood, half-awkwardly smoothing my coat as if it could clean up how stunned I must have looked. The producer gave a soft chuckle from the side and excused himself with an obvious smile, mumbling something about giving us a moment.

As the door clicked shut again, the room fell silent. It was just me and her.

"Wow… I didn’t expect you," I managed, gesturing for her to sit, voice lightly cracking from the back of my throat. "I mean… I wouldn’t have guessed you’d be into horror content. Especially psychological stuff."

She sat gracefully, smoothing the hem of her dress with a natural elegance that made even that simple action look cinematic. “I know,” she said, tilting her head a little, smile still playing gently at her lips. “Most people think I get scared easily.”

"Don’t you?" I blinked. She laughed softly. It was breathy, like flower petals tumbling in spring wind. “I do. I still get chills from my own shadow sometimes.”

We both laughed lightly. And yet… she was here. Voluntarily. “So why my show, then?” I asked, voice finally settling into something casual.

She folded her hands on her lap, elbows relaxed on the table. Her posture was poised, refined—but not stiff. There was an unspoken ease between us already. “Because it makes me think,” she said.

That caught me off guard. “About what?”

She didn’t answer immediately. Her eyes drifted toward the window, where soft sunlight slipped through half-drawn blinds and painted slow lines across the floor. “…About things that we’re not usually allowed to say out loud,” she replied eventually. “Things that feel wrong to admit, but somehow… the stories on your show made them feel safe to imagine.”

That silenced me. I’d had fans before. Listeners who messaged in, who cried during episodes, who swore we helped them sleep at night, or not sleep. But this… this was different.

This was Sana. A memvber from one of the biggest girl groups in the world.

Famous for her bright laugh, her bubbly warmth, her charm that melted camera lenses—and here she was, sitting across from me in a retro-collared blouse, talking about the comfort she found in my strange little world of haunted whispers and emotional shadows.

“Didn’t expect to be the reason someone like you liked horror,” I admitted, letting a smile tug at my lips. “Most guests come to debate, not compliment.”

She tilted her head again, amused. “I’m not like most guests.”

We shared a brief silence. Not awkward. Just… weighted. There was no flirtation in her eyes. Not yet. Just warmth. Sincere appreciation. But behind her calm demeanor, something still lingered. Not darkness. Not danger. But something. Purpose.

[JYPE Talk Show Conference Room – Rehearsal Space]

The rehearsal room was warm with low lights, a hum of muted conversation buzzing in the corners as sound staff prepped mics and the camera crew adjusted the test angles for tomorrow’s shoot.

I sat across from her again—Sana, now barefoot with her heels neatly set aside beside her chair, the hem of her beige dress brushing the floor as she shifted comfortably in her seat. She wasn’t wearing the full stage-ready face of makeup now. Just soft tones, the natural flush of her cheeks, lips tinted like a fading memory.

“So,” I started, flipping open the concept notebook Dokyeom handed me earlier. “You said you had a topic in mind for this collab, right?”

She nodded, fingers gently playing with the rim of a paper coffee cup that had long gone cold. “It’s called The Echo Room,” she said, voice light but focused.

“Sounds psychological already.” I smiled faintly, tapping my pen on the page. “What’s the idea behind it?”

She looked up at me—directly. The kind of eye contact that doesn’t just meet yours, but searches. Not assertive. Not flirty. Just… sincere. And strangely unreadable. “It’s a story about… someone who leaves messages.”

“Like, voicemail-style?”

“More like anonymous radio broadcasts,” she said. “But they never reveal who they’re for. Just memories. Or confessions. Things they could never say face-to-face. The kind of things you only say when no one can answer back.”

That was… very on-brand for this show. And eerily poetic.

“The twist,” she continued, voice dipping slightly, “is that one day… someone starts replying. But not through calls. Just… things start happening in real life. Subtle things. As if someone heard the broadcast and wanted to speak back. But not through words.”

I blinked. Scribbled something down. “Creepy in a quiet way.”

“Exactly.” Her lips curved just slightly—not quite a smile, but the soft acknowledgment of being understood. But it was more than the concept. As she explained it further—layer by layer, about how the character (a woman) slowly begins to believe her messages are reaching the person she lost, and how her need to be heard becomes an obsession—I noticed it.

That shift. Subtle. When she was addressing the crew, joking with Dokyeom, giggling at something the PD said—she was the Sana everyone knew. Bubbly. Bright. Effortlessly warm. But when she turned back to me…

It changed. Her posture relaxed, her voice dropped just slightly, more melodic. Her gaze lingered longer—never invasive, never inappropriate—but present. As if she wasn’t just looking at me. She was studying me. And her words? They always circled back in a strange, unintentional loop. To me.

“I think the girl in the story… she’s not just lonely,” Sana murmured, almost absentmindedly. “She’s always been around people. Always adored. But she feels closest to the one person who never reached back.”

I hesitated. “…Is it about heartbreak?”

“Maybe.” A beat. Then her eyes locked onto mine again. “Or maybe it’s about needing to be known by someone who sees past the surface. Someone who listens—not just hears.” I felt it then. That slow tug in the air. Like the quiet tension in the moments before rain.

Her words weren’t threatening. Not even intense. But there was something in them… something deeper than fan-level admiration. A tenderness. A familiarity she was weaving without consent or clarity. A bond that existed entirely in her space—but made you feel like you were being drawn into it without resisting.

Parasocial? Maybe. But unlike what I’d studied in theory or seen in fans—hers wasn’t manic. It was soft. Velvety. Beautiful, even. And that’s what made it harder to detect.

“You’ve clearly thought about this character a lot,” I said, flipping a page, trying to stay professional despite the odd flutter in my chest.

“I lived her once,” she said softly.

I looked up. “…What?”

She gave a light laugh—almost as if she didn’t mean to say it aloud. “I mean,” she corrected, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, “I’ve imagined being her. You know. Leaving something out there and wondering if the person it was meant for ever felt it.”

My throat tightened for a moment. There was nothing accusatory in her tone. No implication. But again—that shift. Like the ghost of a feeling dancing in the corners of her words.

Sana leaned forward slightly, resting her chin on the back of her hand, elbow on the table. Her eyes sparkled—not with flirtation, but something far more disarming. “Have you ever felt like someone’s watching your work a little too closely?”

I smiled, deflecting. “That’s the point of a radio show, isn’t it? Hoping someone’s out there?”

She chuckled. “No, not hoping.” Her voice softened. “Knowing.”

That answer sat between us like the fog that rolls in slow. I didn’t feel unsafe. I didn’t feel alarmed. But I felt seen in a way that wasn’t quite normal.

She was still Sana. Still charming. Still graceful. But something behind that smile had gravity. Something that pulled the room ever so gently in her direction—one breath at a time. And yet…I didn’t mind. I didn’t even want to move.

[Whispers After One — Special Episode: Echo Room]

The red ON AIR light blinked to life. Soft instrumental hums floated beneath it—barely there, like whispers clinging to the edges of the night. The scent of paper, ink, and freshly brewed coffee filled the cool air of the soundproof studio.

This was my sanctuary. Until tonight, my face had been a mystery even to my most loyal listeners. Only my voice existed out there—a drifting, nameless presence after 1 AM. "Whispers After One" was never meant to show. It was meant to haunt.

But now, there were cameras tucked into the corners. Their red recording lights burned small holes into the darkness. A quiet staffer approached me with a black satin mask—sleek, simple, covering half my face from just beneath my eyes down to my chin.

I accepted it without hesitation. Better this than surrendering the last fragile boundary I had left. Adjusting the mask over my nose, I took my seat behind the microphone. Across from me, in a matching soft pool of light, sat her.

Minatozaki Sana.

No heels now. Her pale shoes tucked neatly under her seat. That dreamy, oatmeal-colored dress catching the light like mist. Soft brown hair framing her face, falling naturally past her shoulders with a lazy side part. Her expression was... calm. Open. But that glint in her eyes—That same glint from the rehearsal, as if some secret rhythm only she could hear was playing in the background—It was still there. And somehow, it was directed only at me.

The cue light flashed.

3…2…1…

I leaned into the mic, voice dropping into the familiar, soothing register I always used when the world was sleeping. "Welcome back, lnsomniacs. This is Whispers After One… and tonight is special."

The theme music faded in—an eerie piano melody, light as fog, stitched with low ambient echoes. Perfect for the concept we built. "You know this show as the place where we explore the unseen, the unheard... the stories that brush past you in the dark."

My gloved fingers tapped lightly against my notes. "But tonight, we're not whispering alone."

I smiled under the mask, glancing across to her. Sana's lips tilted in a soft smile, almost shy. "Joining me is none other than Minatozaki Sana of TWICE," I said, voice steady but warm. "An artist you know for her light, her charm... and tonight, a very different side you'll hear."

Sana leaned into her own mic. "Annyeonghaseyo~..." she said, her voice as delicate and careful as if she were afraid to break the spell we’d woven in the room.

She glanced once, sideways, at me—not the audience, not the staff. Just me. "I'm Sana," she continued, "and… I'm really honored to be here, especially on a show I’ve secretly loved for a long time."

There was a tiny, almost imperceptible emphasis on secretly. The camera panned softly between us, slow and cinematic, bathing the scene in candlelight tones. I caught it then—listeners would hear the sweetness in her voice. They wouldn’t hear the tiny note of awe, almost reverence, buried underneath it when she spoke to me.

But sitting across from her now? I could feel it. "Tonight's theme," I said, sliding naturally into the next beat, "is something Sana herself proposed… The Echo Room." A soft chime sound marked the transition. "We'll tell a story," I explained, "about leaving memories in the void... and what happens when the void starts whispering back."

Sana inhaled softly, like the concept itself stirred something real inside her. She began: "Imagine… it starts simple. A girl sits by her radio every night, speaking into the silence." Her voice was slow, wrapped in velvet. Designed not just to tell—but pull you in. "She talks about her day. About her memories. About the things she regrets never saying when she had the chance."

Soft ambient echoes bloomed in the background, like faint footsteps down a hallway. I found myself leaning in a little too naturally, matching her tone. "At first, there’s no answer," I murmured. "Just the empty static of being unheard."

Sana’s eyes lifted slightly—catching mine for half a second, as if savoring that line. "But then," she whispered, "the things she talks about… start changing around her. A song she mentions plays in a store the next day. A childhood photo reappears where it was lost. A dream she shares… comes true."

The room seemed to lean closer with us. No one else spoke. Even the staff held their breath, watching the slow, eerie performance unfold.

Sana’s hands, resting lightly on the table, curled slightly. Her next words floated out like fog. "It’s not a ghost. Not magic. It's just… someone, somewhere, listening too closely."

I kept my voice steady. "And maybe," I said lowly, "someone who never intended to stay invisible forever." For a moment, it wasn’t acting. It wasn’t just a show. It felt real—a strange tether tying us, pulling her soft, mysterious aura closer across the table.

She smiled—barely. The kind of smile you'd give if you heard a secret only you were supposed to know. We let the music swell lightly, giving the audience space to breathe—or shiver—before easing into light conversation about loneliness, connection, unseen bonds.

Sana answered thoughtfully—always thoughtful—but whenever she directed a response to me, her voice softened even further. Her glances flickered a bit longer. Her smile tilted slightly more intimate. No one else would catch it. The cameras wouldn’t catch it.

But sitting there behind the mask, the air between us humming with unseen frequencies—I felt it. And for some reason…I didn’t mind at all.

The cameras whirred almost inaudibly. The background music faded down to near silence, leaving only the natural softness of breathing, the quiet clicks of shifting in chairs. We were deep into the middle portion of the show now—the part where the tone always sank a little heavier, a little deeper. The Echo Room was alive in the minds of the listeners now.

Sana tilted her head slightly, the smooth fall of her hair brushing her cheek. She rested her chin lightly on her palm, elbow on the table. Her posture seemed casual at first. But when she spoke next, there was something unfathomably tender in her voice, something that barely fluttered across the air like the wings of a moth.

"Sometimes..." she began, almost as if she were reminiscing instead of answering the latest question, "the scariest thing isn't the ghost itself. It's realizing you've been watched... and cared for... without ever knowing it." A small smile played at her lips—not mischievous, not playful. Soft. Almost… longing.

I nodded slightly, unaware of the undercurrent beneath her words. "Because," I replied thoughtfully, my mind on the story’s framework, "attention unseen is both a comfort and a horror, depending on the day."

"Mm," Sana murmured, low and gentle. "Depending on who’s watching." Her eyes flicked briefly to me again—not dramatic, not lingering. Just long enough that if anyone else had truly been looking... They might have wondered if that line was meant for the microphone at all. Or just for the man behind the mask.

I shifted slightly, adjusting my notes, brushing off the subtle tickle of awareness that something unspoken had passed between us. Probably just the atmosphere of the show. Probably just her talent for acting dreamy. The moment dissolved almost instantly as she leaned back, laughing softly at my next quip about radios "whispering back" too much and scaring people away from technology.

But there it was. A tiny drop of something left behind in the air. Invisible. Undetectable. Undeniably there. Recording continued. Unnoticed by me. But maybe not so unnoticed by Sana.

[Segment: Listener Q&A - Final Portion]

"And we're back," I spoke into the mic, smiling beneath my mask, "to the final portion of tonight’s Echo Room... featuring none other than Minatozaki Sana."

The small studio lights dimmed a little more for mood. The screen behind us flickered with soft visuals—moving mist, phantom lights, silhouettes that swayed without sound.

Sana turned slightly toward the camera, flashing a soft, shy smile that instantly melted the atmosphere. It was like watching sunlight fight its way through a heavy fog. "I’m excited," she said brightly, clasping her hands together on the table. "Listener questions are always the most fun!"

I chuckled. "You say that now... wait until you hear some of the ones our audience dared to send in." Dokyeom gave a small laugh from the control booth, muffled but still heard, like an inside joke shared behind the scenes. I shuffled the cards in front of me and pulled one randomly.

Question 1: "If you were haunted by a spirit, what kind of ghost would you want it to be?"

I leaned toward the mic a little dramatically. "Starting off easy," I teased. "Alright, Sana-ssi. Friendly Casper ghost? Romantic old-school spirit? Demonic possession? Pick your fighter."

Sana giggled, her laughter bubbling like soda but her fingers tapped lightly against the table—nervous energy? Excitement? It was hard to tell. "Mm..." she said, pretending to think seriously. "If I had to choose... I'd want it to be a gentle one. Someone who doesn't scare me... someone who's just... always there. Even when I don't see them."

Her voice dipped softer at the end. The audience probably heard it as cute. I just smiled and nodded. Unaware of how her gaze barely lifted from me—not the camera.

Question 2: "What scares you more — being alone, or being watched?"

I grinned beneath the mask. "Now we’re getting serious."

Sana bit her bottom lip lightly, thoughtful. "Being watched," she said immediately. Then, she blinked as if realizing she should elaborate. "I think... if you're alone, you can prepare yourself. Be strong. But if someone's watching you without you knowing, you can’t protect yourself. You’re... vulnerable. You can't hide."

Her fingers curled slightly in her lap.She wasn’t acting cute anymore. There was something achingly sincere behind her eyes.

I nodded slowly."There’s a strange kind of helplessness in it," I said, keeping the professional tone. "To be seen fully without your consent."

Sana smiled. A small, knowing smile. Almost grateful.

Question 3: "Have you ever had a feeling that someone cared about you... even without seeing them?"

I blinked at the phrasing. It was a little poetic for a listener submission. "Interesting question," I said aloud. "Kind of sweet too, in a creepy way."

Sana took a slow breath, and her voice dropped just a fraction lower. "Yes," she said simply. There was a silence—not heavy, but hanging, like a silk scarf caught on a branch. She tilted her head, looking down for a second, then lifting her gaze slightly—not to the camera, not to the script. Straight at me.

"Sometimes...you just know," she said. "When someone’s out there. Listening. Understanding you... even when they shouldn't be able to." Her smile didn’t falter. It just grew... softer. Almost sad.

I adjusted the mic settings casually, brushing off the odd pulse that tightened in my chest. Probably just the heavy nature of the show tonight. Probably.

Final Listener Submission: "If you could say one thing to someone who has always quietly supported you... without revealing who they are... what would you say?"

The card trembled slightly between my gloved fingers. Not from fear. Just... a sudden, creeping awareness of how delicate this atmosphere had become.

I looked at Sana expectantly. She smiled—a smile like slow, melting candle wax. Lovely. Strange. She didn’t even hesitate. She leaned closer to the mic, close enough that her breath was almost audible through the audio system. "I would say..." she whispered, "You’ve never been invisible to me. Even if you think you are. I’ve seen you all along."

The studio seemed to still. Even Dokyeom, busy behind the screens, paused briefly before resuming his work. Sana pulled back, her smile folding into a sweet little laugh. "Was that too dramatic?" she teased lightly, playful again. "I'm just getting into the theme!"

I laughed with her, nodding. "That’s what the Echo Room is for."

"To let all the unsaid things... finally be heard."

And with that, the final music cue rose gently from the speakers—soft, haunting, like the last ripple of a stone dropped into a dark, endless lake.

The cameras slowly powered down. The soft applause of the production staff filled the room. Not loud. Just a polite ripple. I removed my headset, stretching slightly, feeling the tightness in my shoulders from staying still so long.

Sana rose from her chair, her movements fluid and graceful. She smoothed her dress lightly, then looked toward me with a small, private smile.

"Thank you," she said, her voice meant just for me, not the room. "For letting me talk about things... I usually can't."

I nodded warmly, still not thinking too much of it. Just a beautiful, kind idol being grateful for a platform. Nothing more. Right?

[Post-Recording Lounge: "A Gentle Kind of Watching"]

The small studio gradually emptied after the last camera light clicked off. Producers laughed among themselves, wrapping cables, sharing inside jokes.

Dokyeom passed by, patting me on the shoulder. "Bro, you killed it," he said with a grin. "She killed it too. Good luck topping that one next week." I gave a humble nod, still seated, the studio warmth slowly cooling as the energy faded.

Across from me, Sana removed the small clip mic from her collar, her movements delicate. She stayed in her seat longer than expected, not in a hurry to leave.

A staff member brought in two steaming cups of herbal tea, leaving them on the low lounge table between us. "You can relax now," I joked lightly, pushing one cup toward her.

She chuckled, wrapping both hands around the warm ceramic "It wasn’t stressful," she said honestly.."Your show... it makes people feel like they can say anything. Even scary things don’t feel so scary when you’re the one listening."

I blinked behind my mask, caught off guard by the sincerity. "Thanks," I said awkwardly. "That's kinda the goal... I guess."

The lounge lighting was softer here — low, amber, almost like candlelight. Outside the soundproof glass, the hallway buzzed with distant life, but in here it was quiet. Safe.

Yet there was something...something that stayed perched invisibly on my shoulder since the recording ended. A prickle between my shoulder blades.

Sana sipped her tea. She looked down at the swirling steam, then back at me — warm, unhurried. We sat there for a moment, not talking, just... existing. Until I broke the silence.

"Actually," I started, voice a little scratchy from hours of talking. "Since you mentioned feeling like someone’s always listening..." Sana's eyes lifted, alert but still casual. "...I got a weird story letter the other day."

She tilted her head slightly, the way a cat might when curious. "Weird?" she asked, voice dipped in curiosity.

I leaned back in my chair, balancing the tea on my knee. "Yeah. Listener submission. No return address. Just signed with an initial."

Sana set her cup down lightly, folding her hands on her lap. Listening. Really listening.

"The initial was ‘S’." Her lips curved slightly upward — not surprised, just vaguely entertained. "Mysterious," she said airily.

I gave a short laugh. "Yeah. Honestly, it started off delicate. Soft. Almost beautiful in a way." I tapped my fingers against the side of the cup unconsciously. "It talked about loneliness, watching late at night... finding comfort in just hearing someone else’s voice. Made me think it was just someone struggling emotionally, you know?"

Sana nodded, perfectly sympathetic. No cracks. No flickers. If anything, she leaned in just slightly, as if urging me to continue. And I did.

"But then..." I hesitated, searching for the right words. "The second half changed. It wasn’t about loneliness anymore. It got...eerie."

Her eyes widened a little — just enough. A picture-perfect actress playing a curious friend. "How?" she whispered.

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, feeling the words slip out before I could second-guess them. "It started describing the room I usually record in. Like... in detail. The way the lights look when they’re dimmed. The way my voice sounds when I'm tired but trying to hide it."

I chuckled dryly. "At first, I thought maybe a staff member wrote it as a prank. But it was... specific."

Sana’s hand brushed the edge of the table, fingertips gliding slowly like tracing invisible patterns. Still calm. Still impossibly soft in her demeanor. "And the ending?" she asked.

I swallowed, the tea now lukewarm in my hand. "The ending said..." I paused, half-laughing at how crazy it sounded aloud, "something like, 'Don’t worry if you ever feel unseen. I'm always there. I know the way the light falls over your shoulders when you think you're alone. I watch.' "

The words hung in the lounge like thin smoke. Sana blinked slowly.Once. Twice. No horror. No visible shiver. Just a soft smile curling at the edge of her lips. "Creepy," she agreed gently. "But... maybe it’s not meant to scare you."

I gave a skeptical grunt. "I dunno. When I read it, it felt...directed at me. Like whoever wrote it actually watches me. Not just as a fan. Like... more."

I didn’t even notice how tightly I gripped the cup until my knuckles whitened.vm Sana noticed, though. Her fingers brushed her own wrist as if feeling a phantom sensation there. "Maybe..." she said, her voice a feather, "they just don’t know how else to show affection."

The room felt a few degrees colder despite the tea steam. I smiled thinly beneath the mask. "Hope they find a healthier way soon."

Sana laughed softly — a sound so musical and so delicate that it almost seemed to cleanse the air. Almost. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, glancing at the clock. "You should keep the letter," she said, a little mischievously. "One day... it might mean something different."

I tilted my head, amused. "You think so?"

"Mmh," she nodded seriously. "Sometimes things that scare us now... become precious memories later."

Her eyes met mine then, steady and shining with something —something I couldn’t name. Tenderness? Amusement? Pity?

I couldn’t tell. All I knew was that sitting there, in the softened light, facing this dreamlike girl in her soft vintage dress and glowing skin, I suddenly felt—watched. Not the way a stalker watches. Not the way an audience watches. Something... closer. Softer. And infinitely harder to run from.

We finished our tea quietly after that. Small talk resumed, light and simple — favorite horror movies, the best seasonal foods, upcoming TWICE schedules. She laughed. I laughed. The uneasiness folded itself into the edges of my mind, tucked away.

When Sana finally stood to leave, she turned at the door, offering a small wave. "Thanks again," she said brightly, her usual on-camera smile blooming.

But her eyes, for just a split second before she turned away—held something else. Something that wasn’t meant for the cameras. Something that wasn’t meant for the world. Somethi1ng that was only meant for me. And I, oblivious to the gravity of it, simply waved back.

[Goodbye: "A Gentle Invitation"]

Sana adjusted her light cardigan over her shoulders, her delicate figure silhouetted briefly against the frosted glass door. The moment felt suspended —Not awkward, not rushed, but... charged with something unseen.

She shifted her weight onto one foot, tapping her knuckles lightly against her palm in a rhythm that didn’t match any song. Almost like she was... deciding.

Finally, she spoke. "Y/N-Oppa," she said, her voice lower, more intimate than earlier. Not the chirpy brightness she used for audiences. Something closer. Softer. Private.

I glanced up from where I was gathering my things, surprised she hadn't just left with the others. "Yeah?" I answered, trying — and probably failing — to sound casual.

Sana stepped closer. Not into my personal space, but close enough that I could smell the faint trace of her floral perfume, delicate like wild jasmine after rain. Her eyes gleamed with something playful — but not teasing. Not exactly.

"Would it be weird," she asked lightly, her thumb tracing a small invisible circle on the strap of her bag, "if we... exchanged contacts?"

The words fell into the space between us so gently that they almost didn't feel real at first. As if it were the most natural thing in the world — and yet, something no one else had dared ask.

For a heartbeat, I just blinked, registering it. Sana smiled — a smile that wasn’t the bright spotlight smile she showed the world. This one was slower. Sweeter. The corners of her mouth curved up almost shyly, her lashes dropping for a beat before lifting again to meet my gaze.

Goddamn, I thought helplessly. She must destroy men without even meaning to. Heat rose unbidden to my cheeks, and before I could clamp down on the reaction, I let out a soft, breathy chuckle. "Uh... yeah, sure," I said, rubbing the back of my neck like some awkward high schooler. "No problem."

Sana’s smile widened just slightly, pleased but still understated, like a cat who got the cream without knocking over the bowl. I pulled out my phone quickly, trying not to look flustered, and handed it to her unlocked.

She accepted it without hesitation, thumbs moving deftly across the screen. Her contact name, when she handed it back, was simple: Sana-chan💞 with a small heart emoji tucked discreetly at the end. Not over-the-top. Not flashy. Just enough to make the memory of it burn softly in my chest.

"Text me later if you want," she said lightly, adjusting her bag on her shoulder. Then, just before stepping away, she paused — looking over her shoulder at me with a smile so gentle it felt like it wrapped itself around my ribs. "Or..." she added, voice dropping ever so slightly, "just when you feel... watched again."

A beat. A shiver. I chuckled under my breath again, half laughing at the way my heart knocked against my ribs without permission. "I'll keep that in mind," I said, pretending not to feel like a teenager all over again.

Sana gave a small bow — graceful, polite — and then disappeared through the door in a flutter of soft footsteps and fragrant air. Left alone, I stared at my phone for a second longer than necessary.

Then at the door she had vanished through. Somewhere in the back of my mind, a thought stirred —the memory of the letter from "S," the eerie words about watching, about knowing the way light touched me when I thought I was alone.

But I shook it off with another small laugh. There was no way it was related.

The success after the Sana special episode was almost absurd.

Whispers After One exploded into trending charts, my inbox filled with interview requests, sponsorships, and curious fans demanding more collaborations.

But as the dust settled, the familiar quiet of the studio at night returned — just me, Dokyeom working behind the glass, the red ON AIR sign humming softly above.

Tonight was another normal recording...or so I thought.

The new pile of listener letters sat on my desk, neatly stacked and awaiting their turn. I skimmed through most of them easily, smiling at fan dedications, life stories, even silly horror stories that felt like they were written on the bus ride home.

But then my hand paused — brushing against an envelope. Cream-colored. No sticker. A faint scent of lavender. It was unmistakable.

"Another one from 'S'." I muttered under my breath, just loud enough that Dokyeom, adjusting the levels, flicked a curious glance up through the glass.

I placed it carefully on the desk, eyeing it warily for a second before flipping the mic switch back on.

"Welcome back to Whispers After One,"

my voice warmed the night air through every lonely apartment, every sleepy commuter's radio. "Tonight, we have another letter...from someone who's becoming quite a familiar whisper in our community — our mysterious storyteller, 'S'."

I tried to make my tone light, teasing — but a part of me already felt the temperature of the room dip. Something about the way this envelope felt...Something different from before. I broke the seal. Unfolded the soft paper.

And began to read:

Dear Whisperer, Have you ever seen a beautiful garden and thought it would last forever? A sanctuary you stumbled into by accident... A place you weren't supposed to find... Yet you stayed because the air was sweeter there than anywhere else But the longer you stayed... The more you realized you weren't just admiring the garden. You were part of it. The roots grew beneath you. They twined around your ankles. They held you there. You are the garden now. And the one who tended it smiles because you have no idea. Until next time, S

I finished reading.

The microphone crackled softly as I leaned back in my chair, staring at the letter. It was...beautiful. Elegant, almost poetic. But underneath the beauty was something deeply unsettling.

The imagery was sticky — roots, trapping, belonging without realizing it. I blinked a few times, feeling the weight of it settle in my chest.

Shaking it off, I reached for the mic again. "Well," I laughed gently, forcing a little levity into the show,

"S, you really have a way with words. I don't know if I should be honored...or a little nervous." I gave a soft chuckle, then leaned closer to the mic, speaking to all the listeners — but mostly, if I was honest, to S themselves.

"To our dear gardener — wherever you are listening —"

"Thank you for your words. But don't worry. I like gardens. Even if they hold onto me a little too tightly."

I smiled after I said it. It sounded charming enough, soothing enough for a late night crowd. But inside...my gut twisted a little. Was I...comforting someone I should be wary of?

The rest of the recording moved along like clockwork. A few lighter letters. Some fan theories about ghost sightings. I kept my energy calm, measured, like always.

Finally, when the ON AIR light dimmed and the outro music faded into silence, I exhaled and leaned back in my chair. The door to the recording booth clicked open and Dokyeom stepped in, stretching.

"Good one, man," he said casually, plopping down in the producer's chair with a yawn. "Numbers are gonna spike again after that. Everyone loves that 'S' stuff."

I hesitated. My hand was still lightly resting on the letter, tracing the bottom of the paper absentmindedly. I looked up at him.

My voice was lower now. Tightened. "Hey, Dokyeom," I said, trying to sound normal, "Can I...ask you something?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, shoot."

I held up the letter slightly, waving it between us. "Am I the only one who thinks this is...weird?" I said carefully. "Like...not just storytelling. I mean—"

I swallowed. "It almost feels like they're watching me."

Dokyeom laughed lightly, scratching the back of his head. "Dude, you're just spooking yourself out. You host a horror-themed show. People are gonna lean into that vibe, you know?"

I frowned. "Yeah...maybe."

But I wasn't convinced.bThe way the letter described finding a place you weren't supposed to, being trapped there... The way it felt oddly personal. Like I was the visitor. I was the one tangled in someone's roots.

Dokyeom must have seen the lingering tension on my face because he softened. "Look," he said, leaning forward on his knees, "If it gets too weird, we can report it. We got enough eyes on this show now that management'll take it seriously. Okay?"

I nodded slowly. "Yeah. Thanks, man."

"No sweat," he said easily, standing and stretching his arms again. "C'mon, let's go grab coffee before you psych yourself into a horror story of your own."

I laughed a little — a genuine one this time — and shoved the letter into my jacket pocket.

But as I followed him out into the cool night air, I couldn't shake the feeling: Someone was smiling somewhere. Someone was glad I was tangled in the roots. And I had no idea who they really were.

[The Day After — At My Apartment]

It was still early — sunlight barely filtering through the half-closed blinds of my apartment — when the doorbell rang.

Not a normal knock. It was frantic, hurried, like whoever was on the other side needed to be let in now.

I frowned, setting my half-eaten toast down, wiping my hands on a napkin as I shuffled to the door. Peering through the peephole, I saw a familiar, slightly disheveled mop of hair.

Dokyeom.

I unlocked it quickly. "Dude, what are you—?"

He didn’t wait for a greeting.He shoved his way inside, clutching a bundle of papers in one hand, his backpack slung half off one shoulder. His eyes were wide — bloodshot like he hadn’t slept. There was sweat beading on his forehead despite the chill outside. "You need to see this," he blurted, voice low, almost hoarse.

I blinked. "What are you talking about? What's going on?"

He threw the papers onto my coffee table with a heavy slap. They spread across the surface — a messy fan of familiar creamy letters, each one bearing that same faint lavender scent.

"S."

I slowly sat down on the edge of the couch, my fingers hesitant as I picked one up. My heart was already hammering against my ribs before I even started reading.

The first letter:

Whisperer, I saw you today. The way you laughed at the coffee shop when no one else was around. You should be careful smiling like that. Someone might think it’s just for them. I would have waved. But you looked too peaceful. Next time, maybe I’ll sit closer. Maybe you’ll notice me. Love, S

I blinked slowly, skin crawling. I hadn’t gone to a coffee shop yesterday...had I?

Then it hit me — two days ago — after recording night. I had grabbed a quick coffee near the studio, wearing my cap low and hoodie up. There was no way someone could have recognized me that easily. Unless...Unless they knew exactly where I was.

I set the letter down with trembling fingers. Dokyeom was pacing now, raking his hand through his hair over and over. "There's more," he said, almost in a whisper. I reached for another.

Second letter:

Dearest Whisperer, The halls you walk through aren’t as empty as you think. The echoes aren't just yours. Some of us follow quietly. Breathing in the spaces you leave behind. Every sound you make... Every sigh, every hum... It stays with us. We are so close. Love, S

I shuddered. The language wasn’t overtly threatening.

But there was something sickly sweet about it — like a cat toying with its prey, smiling while it tore. "Dokyeom," I said slowly, voice tight, "where the hell did you get these?"

He slumped onto the armchair across from me, hands dangling between his knees. "Management sent them to me this morning," he muttered. "Apparently...they’ve been holding back showing you some of the weirder stuff because they thought it was just a weird superfan thing. They didn’t want to 'stress you out' while the show's popularity was booming."

I stared at him. My mouth opened. Closed. I didn’t even know where to start. "And now?" I croaked.

He exhaled sharply. "Now they're scared too. Security at the building caught someone on cameras last week — twice. Hanging around the studio exit, then again near the parking lot. Same figure. Baggy clothes, hat down low, face hidden. Both times they were moving like they were looking for someone. Asking questions to random interns too."

He rubbed his palms into his eyes, voice cracking a little. "Man, they're trying to cover it up because the show’s hot right now, but...they know it’s bad."

I felt my entire body stiffen, my mind flashing back to the weird feeling I'd had last Thursday — like eyes on the back of my neck when I'd left late, the hairs standing up along my arms for no reason. I thought I was just tired. Paranoid. But it was real. Someone had been there.

I raked my hands through my hair, standing up, pacing now myself. "Okay. Okay, so what do we do? File a report? Get security to—"

"Already done," Dokyeom interrupted, lifting a hand weakly. "They're bumping your security up quietly. Only the top level of the building knows. They're trying not to cause a scene."

I scoffed bitterly. "Right. Because God forbid my safety messes up the profit margins."

He gave a humorless chuckle. Silence fell for a moment — heavy, thick.

I looked down at the letters again. The handwriting was so elegant. Almost fragile. Not the shaky scrawl you'd expect from someone this...obsessed. It was beautiful. It was deliberate. I picked up one more letter, the newest one. And this one...this one wasn’t even poetic.

Third letter:

Whisperer, It’s not fair that others get to have you when you were meant for us. They can't protect you like I can. They can't see you like I do. When the garden is full bloom, you won't remember them. You’ll only remember me. And by then, it’ll be too late to leave. Love Always, S

I dropped the letter like it burned me.

Dokyeom stood up too, the two of us just staring at the pile of letters like it might start moving on its own. The garden metaphor again. Always the garden. Only now...it was starting to sound less like a sanctuary. And more like a prison.

I broke the silence finally, my voice quieter, almost childishly hopeful: "Maybe...it's still just stories. Maybe it's all for the show. You know how some fans get carried away roleplaying..."

Dokyeom didn’t even bother answering. The look in his eyes said it all. This wasn’t a game. It wasn’t a story anymore. It was real. And whoever "S" was...they were closer than I ever wanted to believe.

want:

[Scene: A Day Indoors — First Real Contact with Sana]

I stayed home that day.

The radio team had put out a public notice early that morning — "Today is a Healing Day," they said, inviting listeners to take time to reflect on the unfolding stories in my show, to imagine what paths tomorrow’s tale might take. Officially, it was framed as an artistic pause. Unofficially... It was because I wasn’t ready to face another letter. Not yet.

I sat on the couch for hours, absently flicking through the stack of strange, unsettling letters Dokyeom had brought over.

They weren't just growing weirder — they were growing darker.

One letter had spiraling phrases — sentences that looped in on themselves, almost hypnotic in repetition:

"You belong to the garden. You belong to the garden. You belong to me."

Another had a dried flower taped to it — the petals wilted and bruised, like it had been carried around for days before being attached. There was no writing on that one. Just the flower. And the faintest stain where it had pressed against the paper.

The psychological pressure was mounting. Thick and sour, like the air before a thunderstorm.

I needed a distraction. Something to pull me out of my own mind.

I picked up my phone, scrolling mindlessly through social media, half-expecting to find nothing worth seeing.

But then, a reel caught my eye.

Sana.

Laughing with the TWICE members in matching pink outfits — filming behind-the-scenes clips for their "Talk That Talk" promotions, somewhere inside their "TIME to TWICE" episode. She spun around playfully, her hair flipping over her shoulder, her smile bright under the stage lights.

It felt almost surreal. Like watching a completely different world. One where people laughed freely, touched shoulders without fear, moved through crowds without second-guessing every gaze.

And then I remembered.

The night of our collab.

Right before she left the studio, she'd lingered — just a second longer than the others — as we exchanged numbers:

"Text me if you wanf. Or... if you ever feel watched. - Sana"

At the time, it felt playful. Maybe even a little teasing.

But now... Now it felt different. Almost prophetic.

I stared at the screen, thumb hovering over her contact.

It was stupid. It was probably crossing a line.

But loneliness does strange things to people.

And fear... Fear makes you reach for any hand that looks steady enough to hold.

Without thinking much more, I typed out a short message.

Me:

"Hey. It's me. From the show. I... know it’s random but... thanks for giving your number. Might be needing that now."

Less than ten seconds later, my screen lit up.

Sana:

"Hi!!! I was hoping you'd text someday." "Is everything okay? You sounded serious."

Her fast response made my chest tighten strangely — like something inside me uncoiled just a little. Someone was there. Someone heard me.

Before I could even think of a proper reply, my phone buzzed again.

Incoming call: Sana.

I hesitated only a second before answering.

"Hey," I said, voice rougher than I intended.

There was a soft laugh on the other end — not her public laugh. No squealing, no showy giggles. Just a small, quiet exhale of relief.

"Hey you," she said warmly. "I'm glad you picked up."

I slumped back against the couch, the tension in my shoulders finally starting to loosen, if only slightly.

Her tone was different from how she'd been during filming. Less bright, more...grounded. Thoughtful pauses between words. Soft, almost musical chuckles when I said something awkward.

It wasn't the bubbly idol voice.

It was something real.

We talked casually at first. A little small talk about promotions, her exhaustion, her love-hate relationship with the "Talk That Talk" choreography. She teased me lightly about being "Mister Mysterious" for not texting sooner.

But eventually, she circled back — gentle, but direct.

"You sounded...like something’s wrong," she said quietly. "What happened?"

For a moment, I hesitated.

It felt stupid. It felt needy. Like dragging someone into a storm they had no reason to stand in.

But the words spilled out anyway.

Piece by piece, I told her about the letters. The garden references. The figure near the studio. The creeping sensation that whoever "S" was...they weren't just watching from afar anymore.

I expected her to react like most people would. Laugh nervously. Tell me it was probably nothing. Change the subject.

But she didn’t.

She listened.

Really listened.

Silent for long stretches except for the soft hum of acknowledgment every few sentences — the occasional murmur of sympathy that kept me talking when I wanted to clam up.

When I finally fell silent, there was a long pause.

And then her voice, softer than ever:

"I'm sorry you're going through this."

Another beat.

"You're not crazy for feeling scared."

Another pause.

"You're not alone either, okay?"

Something behind my ribcage cracked a little at that.

Not alone.

Sana's tone grew a little more firm — not harsh, but steady.

"Tell me about your radio show. Your team. The building security. How you get in and out. I want to know everything."

I chuckled weakly.

"Why? Gonna become my personal bodyguard?"

She laughed too — but there was a seriousness underneath it.

"I might not be able to fight but..." "My management can push some things." "We can make some quiet calls. Put some pressure on security. Maybe even sneak in a few extra guards without it looking suspicious."

I immediately shook my head, even though she couldn’t see it.

"No, no. You don’t have to get involved. I don't want you stressing over—"

"I'm already involved," she interrupted gently. "You reached out to me. That means you trust me. That means you don’t have to carry this alone."

Her voice dipped even lower — nearly a whisper:

"Let me help."

Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe it was loneliness. Maybe it was the simple human need to be seen.

But I caved.

I told her everything — the time slots I worked, the usually empty corridors, the neglected side exits. How easy it would be for someone determined enough to slip inside.

She listened in that same quiet, unwavering way.

When I finally stopped, drained and embarrassed, she simply said:

"Okay. I'll take care of it from here. You just focus on staying safe for me."

I almost laughed at how natural it sounded — for me.

As if we were already standing on the same side of the line.

As if somehow, in the span of one strange afternoon, I'd found an unexpected shield in someone I barely knew beyond a few hours in a dim recording studio.

We stayed on the call longer than either of us probably intended.

Talking about nothing and everything.

Letting the silence stretch out sometimes — not awkwardly, but comfortably.

I could almost forget, for a little while, about the letters.

About the garden.

About the shadows moving in the corners of my life.

Almost.

But when Sana finally hung up — promising to text me updates — I stared at the phone in my hand for a long, long time.

Something had shifted today. Subtle, but irreversible.

And whether it was a good thing or a dangerous thing... I didn’t know yet.

After the call ended, I lay back against the couch, my fingers mindlessly scrolling across YouTube. Without even thinking, I typed her name into the search bar. Sana TWICE moments.

One by one, the algorithm fed me a buffet of her clips — everything from downright suggestive stages where her every glance could melt concrete, to chaotic, adorable show appearances where she laughed until she couldn't breathe. I just let it autoplay, sinking into it all. The contrast was insane. How could the same woman who was doing that hip roll on stage just hours later be the same one who talked to me tonight so gently, so... thoughtfully?

Talking to her made me feel... lighter. As cheesy as it sounded, it felt like a bit of the weight that had been pressing on me for days finally floated up and away.

I smiled to myself, shifting the pillow behind my back. Maybe... Maybe this was how my listeners felt, too. When they called into the show with their horror stories, trembling voices and hearts still stuck in the moments they lived — and I listened. When I spoke back, tried to ease their nerves, and offered them some kind of shelter from the dark — maybe this was what they felt. A strange kind of peace. A quiet knowing that even if the world was insane, even if shadows crept close, someone else was there. Someone heard them.

I leaned my head back and closed my eyes, Sana's soft laughter from one of the clips playing faintly through the speakers. It sure feels nice.

Maybe too nice.

The next few days passed like an unraveling thread, pulling tighter and tighter around my chest.

At first, it was just the same — unreadable letters from "S" sliding into the show's inbox, their language growing steadily more desperate, more fixated. There were no overt threats... just descriptions. Descriptions of me. Of how I moved when I wasn’t on camera. Of the little habits I had that no ordinary fan would ever know.

At first, I thought I was imagining it. Stress hallucinations, maybe. But then it started. Real glimpses.

At the corner of my eyes — while waiting at the crosswalk, while locking my car, while jogging late night — I caught flashes of a figure. Not directly coming at me like a typical stalker... no, that would’ve been easier. It was worse. Always in the periphery. Always vanishing when I turned fully.

Security around the building was tightened. Dokyeom was practically living in a constant panic, double-checking the CCTV files every hour. But we couldn't catch anything tangible yet.

Even so... Even so, I found myself still texting Sana almost every night.

Our conversations were strangely grounding. After the voice call that night, it had become a quiet ritual — I would text her little updates, and she would reply with simple, warm check-ins. No fake cheeriness. No excessive worrying. Just realness.

"Eat something good today?" "Don’t read the letters alone at night." "I’m proud of you for holding strong."

It was odd. Sometimes, it felt like she knew exactly what to say before I could even type it out.

Tonight, though... Tonight was different.

It was past 1:30 a.m. I had just wrapped reading another eerie letter sent by "S," the paper oddly scented like flowers this time. I was sitting in the main lounge of my penthouse, half a bottle of water untouched beside me, lights dimmed low out of habit. There was a weight in the air. A heavy, wet kind of silence, like the city itself was holding its breath.

My phone buzzed beside me.

It was Sana.

"If you feel off, don't hesitate to call. Even just for a second."

I smiled faintly, thumbs poised over the keyboard.

"I'm okay. Just tired. Letters getting a bit heavier. Thanks for always replying to me. I’m glad I can talk to you."

Seconds after I sent it, the little 'typing' bubble popped up. She replied instantly.

"Always. You're not alone."

I leaned back against the couch, letting my eyes drift shut for just a moment. The comforting ring of her words curled around me, pushing the cold fear aside, even if only barely.

Then—

THUD.

A sudden, low sound, coming from the front door. My heart jackhammered against my ribs. I sat up straight, pulse spiking.

Maybe just the wind, I tried to rationalize. Maybe—

CRACK.

The sound of the lock snapping echoed through the apartment.

I bolted upright, cold sweat prickling at the back of my neck. The front door creaked inward slowly, almost mockingly, and I saw it—

A silhouette.

Lean. Perfectly still in the doorway.

The only light in the apartment now came from the glowing TV screen and my phone. The figure stood between me and the faint city lights pouring in from the high windows.

I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe.

My phone buzzed again on the coffee table. Sana's name lit up the screen.

"Did you hear something?"

I didn’t even have time to answer.

The silhouette stepped inside.

For a frozen heartbeat, neither of us moved.

The silhouette stood like a shadow carved into the air — wrong and still. Not overly tall. Not thick-built either. A thought crossed my mind in the sliver of silence: Is it a woman...?

The shape was slender, compact. Dangerous in a way that wasn’t brute strength — but precision. Like a blade.

My hand, slick with sweat, slid towards my phone still lit up from Sana’s last text. Carefully. Slowly. I swiped up and fumbled to call Dokyeom.

The line barely rang once.

"Bro, listen, don't freak out—someone broke—"

But the slight hiss of my voice was enough.

The figure’s head snapped up. Her body jerked like a wound spring finally released.

In an instant, she lunged. Fast. Too fast.

A glint of white — a mask over her lower face — was all I could register before she closed the distance.

Instinct took over. I swung the doorframe between us hard like a shield, the heavy wood slamming against her shoulder and throwing off her angle.

"SHIT!" I barked, diving sideways into the corridor outside my main living room.

My penthouse wasn't cramped — it was practically a maze. Open floor designs twisting into sharp halls, lounging areas, a half-visible studio space. Plenty of space to move. But also plenty of blind corners.

Heavy footsteps pounded behind me — no longer cautious, no longer sneaky. She was full predator now.

I sprinted, ducking through the first archway into the guest lounge. Breath ripping in and out of my lungs, I slammed the door shut and locked it — Just in time for her to slam against it from the other side.

The whole frame shuddered.

My hands flew over my phone.

"Dokyeom, call the cops! She's in! She's INSIDE!" I hissed through gritted teeth.

The line was crackling, chaotic on his end.

"I'M ON IT! Bro — BRO — are you okay?! Stay somewhere tight — hide — don't fight her alone!"

From the other side of the door, I heard it — Not yelling. Not banging. But a giggle.

A sick, childlike giggle muffled behind the door and her mask. High-pitched. Almost... gleeful.

A new kind of terror slid into my bones. She wasn’t just trying to scare me. She was enjoying this.

I backed away from the door, scanning the room.

Windows? Not an option — too high. Emergency staircase? Across the penthouse — no good from here.

The lock gave a warning groan. She was forcing it.

I took a breath that burned my throat and pivoted, dashing towards the hall again. If I could loop around the apartment’s back corridors, maybe I could get out through the service entrance.

I didn’t look back.

My bare feet slapped against the marble as I raced into the back hallway — a place usually reserved for delivery routes and cleaning staff.

Behind me, the door crashed open.

"WHERE ARE YOU GOING?" A voice sang out — distorted and almost giddy from behind the mask.

It was definitely a woman’s voice. Young. Sweet. Horribly out of place.

I didn’t answer. Just ran harder.

She chased after me, her footsteps light, too light, like she knew this terrain better than I did.

A framed photo on the wall shattered near my head — thrown. I ducked instinctively, heart pounding, eyes blurring with fear and sweat.

I barreled down another turn — closer to the kitchen now, closer to the back exit — when my phone buzzed again.

A text popped up from Sana at the worst possible time:

"What's happening? Tell me!"

Shit.

I had no time to answer.

I heard her laugh again, closer this time.

And then — At the far end of the hall, silhouetted against the faint lights of the kitchen — there she stood again.

Waiting. Arms spread, like she wanted me to run into her.

The only option was sideways — a narrow door leading to the wine cellar. I crashed into it without thinking, slammed it shut behind me, breathing in short, stabbing bursts.

It was pitch dark. Only my phone’s dying glow gave me any view.

I pressed my back against the thick wood door, muscles locked tight.

No sound.

Not even footsteps now.

Had she... stopped?

I dared to glance down at my phone again. Sana was still texting frantically.

Another buzz.

"If you can, lock yourself. Hide. Help is coming."

And then, chillingly:

"Don't let her find you before they arrive."

I tightened my grip on the door handle, locking it from inside with a heavy twist.

But even in the dark, I could feel it. The overwhelming, suffocating sensation.

She was still close.

Maybe even listening at the door.

My body stiffened — every nerve alight.

A slow, deliberate tap... tap... tap began against the wood.

The tapping continued. Gentle at first. Then harder. Almost... playfully testing the wood.

I crouched down lower in the darkness, heart smashing against my ribs, clutching my phone like a lifeline.

How the hell did Sana know? I hadn’t messaged anything after I ran.

Then my screen lit again — the old voice recorder app, blinking red.

A sudden realization made my gut twist. Somewhere during the panic earlier... I must have accidentally pressed the voice record button. It sent her a partial audio clip — fragments of me running, gasping, the crash of something shattering, and my half-whispered curses.

She must’ve heard enough. Pieced it together.

Smart girl...

A shudder ran through me. But no time to think deeper.

Suddenly — creak The window above the wine racks on the far side of the cellar cracked open.

The sharp night air whooshed in, carrying the city’s distant noise.

I bolted my gaze to it.

No. Not her. It was too small for a human to fit through without extreme effort.

Still — another weak point.

My phone buzzed again.

Dokyeom.

I yanked it to my ear, voice low but shaking.

"Bro, bro! Where the hell are the cops, man?!"

He was panting, too — like he’d been running.

"They’re coming! Five minutes out!"

"I don't have five minutes!" I hissed, cutting my voice low when another soft creak came from the door.

"Tell me quick — are the outside maintenance pipelines still intact along the building?" I demanded, swallowing panic.

There was a tiny chance — tiny — the old metal maintenance lines running down the side of the tower could bear some weight.

Dokyeom didn't even hesitate.

"Yeah! Yeah, the security never got rid of ‘em yet, especially on your floor! They're thick — old-school steel shit."

I sucked in a breath, eyes flicking from the door to the half-open window.

"I'm going down the pipes."

"WHAT?! BRO, NO —"

"I'M NOT WAITING TO BE SLAUGHTERED, DOKYEOM!" I barked.

I could almost hear him pulling at his own hair over the call.

"FUCK — be careful, PLEASE, man! I’m racing there too! I swear!"

I didn’t answer — already scrambling toward the narrow window.

Another tap-tap-tap echoed behind me — faster now, desperate.

The door handle twitched.

I squeezed myself through the tiny window opening, my shoulders scraping against the cold stone. One foot out, then the next.

The wind whipped at my shirt. The city lights stretched below me like a sea of fireflies.

I clutched the old maintenance pipe with both hands.

It rattled slightly under my grip.

Hold. Hold... please hold.

I slid my body flat against the side of the building, gripping the rusted metal tighter than I’d ever held anything in my life.

Below me? At least a dozen stories.

Death in one bad slip.

Behind me, a horrible slam rattled the wine cellar door. She was breaking through.

Without another thought, I started shimmying down.

Hand over hand. Legs tight around the pipe.

The old metal bit into my palms, scraping skin. I gritted my teeth, ignoring the sting.

Three floors down. Four.

The lights of the penthouse were getting smaller above me.

The window I’d crawled out of shone faintly — And then I saw it.

The figure.

She leaned out. Mask still on. Watching me.

I could feel her gaze burning into my back.

No shout. No threat.

Just watching.

My chest tightened painfully. I forced myself not to look back again.

Another floor down. Another.

The shouts of security guards started echoing from below — faint but growing.

Sirens wailed distantly — getting closer.

My hands, numb and raw, finally found the ledge of the emergency balcony on the service floor.

With a desperate grunt, I swung myself onto it, collapsing to my knees, gasping.

The guards burst into the service floor hallway a second later, weapons drawn, yelling.

I stumbled up, waving both hands.

"I’m friendly! I'm the tenant! She's upstairs!"

They surrounded me instantly, some guiding me behind them, others radioing furiously.

Through the chaos, I glanced up one last time.

The penthouse window.

Empty.

She was gone.

Like she was never there.

The guards hustled me through the service hall. Sirens were wailing closer now. Somewhere below, more security teams flooded in.

I could barely stand straight, the adrenaline crash hitting me like a truck. The call with Dokyeom was still echoing faintly in my ear — "I'm almost there! Hold on!"

And then — the sharp screech of tires outside. A black van pulling up violently at the emergency lot.

The doors flung open before it even fully stopped.

And there she was.

Sana. Bursting out of the van. Running toward me like the world was ending.

I blinked, stunned, barely processing the guards parting instinctively around her.

She wasn't in some armored jacket or casual airport fit. No. She looked like she had just dropped everything and came exactly as she was.

Sana was in a black satin slip dress, delicate lace tracing the neckline, thin straps barely clinging to her soft shoulders. Over it, she had thrown an oversized pastel pink cardigan, its huge, plush fabric swallowing her smaller frame.

Her hair was a soft mess of loose waves, half-up, half-down, with gentle brown and reddish hues catching in the emergency lights.

A few strands clung to her damp cheeks where — My heart squeezed painfully — where tears were already spilling.

Tears. For me.

Minatozaki Sana, the goddess of a million fantasies, was crying over me.

She ran without hesitation, the hem of her dress swishing against her thighs, cardigan sleeves slipping down her arms.

When she reached me, she didn’t say a word. She just crashed into me.

Her arms wrapped tight around my ribs. Face burying against my chest.

The scent of soft rose shampoo and skin-warm silk hit me all at once.

"You’re safe — you’re safe — you’re safe —" she whispered, half-sobbing against me.

I stood frozen, my battered hands hovering uselessly in the air, mind spinning.

Was this real? Was this actually happening?

Her body was warm, trembling slightly against mine. The silk of her dress brushed against my jeans, the pastel cardigan brushing my arms.

I finally — shakily — wrapped my arms around her back.

Held her.

God, she felt fragile. And beautiful.

Dokyeom's voice broke through the daze, rushing over behind her.

"Y/N! Bro, you're — Sana?!"

He stumbled to a halt, clearly thrown by the scene.

Sana didn't even look at him. She just squeezed me tighter, her small hands fisting into the back of my shirt.

"I was so scared... I thought I'd hear..." Her voice cracked, raw and trembling.

I found myself speaking before I even thought.

"I’m here. I’m okay. You saved me again, Sana."

At those words, she finally pulled back just a little. Looked up.

Her eyes — usually sparkling mischief or teasing charm — were glassy, wide, full of so much relief it hurt to look at.

Under the harsh security lights, she was still the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.

Her fingers brushed my jawline lightly, as if checking if I was truly solid.

"I should’ve come faster... I should’ve..."

I shook my head, voice thick.

"No. You were perfect. You always are."

She gave a soft, watery laugh — almost disbelieving. The most heartbreakingly beautiful sound.

For a moment — just one suspended breath in time — we stood there. Surrounded by chaos, guards, shouting, sirens.

But all I saw was her.

The city didn't exist. Only Sana in her slip dress and cardigan, holding me like I was something worth crying for.

How... How did it come to this? I asked the universe silently as I stood there, feeling Sana's heartbeat faintly against my side.

When had she gotten this close to me?

We had only texted for a few days. Shared a few voice calls. A handful of conversations at most.

Yet somehow, in those late-night talks, in those quiet, vulnerable exchanges... Sana had slipped past every wall I'd built.

I wasn't someone who attached easily. I wasn't some naive dreamer waiting to be swept away by kindness. I was the host of one of the most famous shows in the country — the man who dealt with psychological horror, who listened to stories of fear, despair, loneliness... and taught others how to find comfort after it.

I was supposed to be the safe space. The listener. The one unshaken.

And yet, Sana — Minatozaki Sana — with her soft chuckles, her introspective silences, her oddly thoughtful questions — had disarmed me so easily after that one night.

Without realizing it, I'd begun looking forward to her name lighting up my phone. To her voice notes that made the long nights less heavy. To the way she seemed to understand — not as an idol, not as a fan — but as someone who had seen shadows too and still chose light.

I wondered if that was what made the difference. If that was why she felt less like a sudden miracle and more like something inevitable.

The flashing lights from the police cars snapped me out of my thoughts. Reality hit like a cold slap.

"Sir, we need your statement." A stern officer approached, not unkindly.

I nodded, stepping slightly forward — but immediately felt Sana tug on my sleeve. Her small hand curled around my wrist stubbornly.

I looked down at her. She wasn’t letting go. Not even for this.

Her cardigan slipped slightly, exposing her bare shoulder for a second before she hiked it up. Her eyes were swollen from crying, but her gaze was fierce, almost daring anyone to say something.

Let them take pictures, she seemed to say. Let them make headlines. She didn’t care.

I gave her a small, tired smile and let her stay pressed against me as I spoke to the officers.

"There was an intruder. Female. About my height, maybe shorter. Slim build. Masked." I recounted everything carefully — the silhouette, the attack, the pipelines, the narrow escape.

Dokyeom occasionally chimed in, adding what he had seen, backing me up.

Sana just stayed there. Head occasionally leaning lightly against my arm. Breathing slow, steady — as if anchoring herself to me.

The staff from my show arrived too, their faces pale and worried. They rushed to my side but paused when they saw Sana clinging to me like a lifeline.

Whispers broke out. Cameras clicked in the distance.

I should've cared. Should’ve pulled away. Should’ve thought about consequences.

But... I didn't.

Instead, I gently tightened my arm around her shoulder.

Because the truth was — as much as she needed me right now, I needed her too.

[One Week Later]

Time moved strangely after that night. Maybe it was shock. Maybe it was relief. Maybe it was just her.

That day — the day Sana came running, the day she clung to me under the flashing sirens without a second thought — she offered me something I hadn’t even realized I needed.

Her presence. Not words. Not promises. Just... her. Her warmth, her stubborn loyalty, her very existence beside me.

I wasn’t someone who ever let my mind wander into ridiculous daydreams. I didn’t believe in miracles or "what ifs" when it came to people like her.

Even during our collab, when we laughed between recordings, when she made those bright jokes only she could deliver, I'd chalked it up to chemistry — professionalism — a dreamlike, fleeting moment in a life full of passing strangers.

But now... Now I could see it clearly. Minatozaki Sana cared. More than a colleague. More than a fan. More than just polite concern.

She cared like someone who felt something real — and wanted me to feel it too.

And for once, I let myself want it. Want her.

The investigation moved fast.

Turned out — The intruder wasn’t a random criminal or a twisted anti-fan. No, it was a fan of mine. A girl, barely past twenty, who'd built up an entire world inside her head — a world where I belonged only to her, a world where anyone near me was the enemy. Including Sana.

She had been stalking from afar for months, building fantasies from my shows, from my voice. And when I started hinting about growing close to someone, even unknowingly, something in her snapped.

Thankfully, Sana had pushed for management intervention the night we first talked seriously. Her instincts had been dead-on.

Because of her, security tightened around me without me even knowing. Because of her, the girl was caught before anything worse happened.

The police later announced she was being transferred to a mental rehabilitation program after the court deemed her psychologically unstable.

It should have been the end of it. A clean break. A return to normal.

But something had shifted. Something between us.

During that week, Sana made time for me in ways that were almost reckless for an idol.

Between rehearsals, she sent voice notes. Late at night, when the city slept, she called — soft-spoken, careful, asking nothing except if I was okay. On her rare free afternoons, she showed up, cardigan slipping off one shoulder, takeaway coffee in hand, grinning like she had every right to be there.

No cameras. No management breathing down her neck. Just Sana. Just... us.

And every time she appeared, the invisible gap between us shrank a little more.

Small moments grew roots:

The way she'd swing her legs lightly while sitting on my couch, hair tied messily. The way she'd lean closer when I spoke, as if my words were some fragile secret she didn't want to miss. The way she'd smile sometimes — not the big, dazzling Sana-smile the world knew — but a quieter one, softer, just for me.

Things between us... Grew.

Maybe too fast. Maybe too recklessly. But at that point — I didn't care.

(Another week later)

The kitchen hummed with the low whirr of the blender as Sana scooped handfuls of ice into the machine. The pastel pink of her cardigan sleeves were rolled up, and her dark hair was tied back loosely, tendrils falling around her face, giving her that effortlessly lovely look she always carried without knowing.

She was humming. A soft, sweet melody, barely recognizable unless one listened closely — the same tune I'd once played on the outro of my most famous radio episode. The same tune she'd clung to on sleepless nights. The same voice that had comforted her... even before we ever met properly.

And now, two days after we officially started dating, she was mine. No — I was hers. Sana smiled to herself, stirring her slushie in the tall glass, thinking how surreal it was — the voice that helped her breathe during hard nights was now the man whose arms could be wrapped around her if she so wished.

The universe had folded itself neatly into her hands.

The dorm door clicked open quietly. Footsteps padded in.

Sana glanced over her shoulder, still smiling faintly as she sipped her slushie.

It was Dahyun.

The younger girl looked a little restless, fidgety even. Something was on her mind.

Sana didn’t say anything first. She waited, stirring the icy drink slowly, letting Dahyun find her words.

"Unnie," Dahyun said after a beat, voice tentative. "Can we talk?"

Sana nodded, inviting her closer with a gentle glance. Of course, she would always have time for Dahyun.

Dahyun came up beside her, leaning against the kitchen counter, staring at the pink-tinged slushie as if it could give her answers.

"I know about you and... Oppa," Dahyun said finally, a small smile twitching her lips. "I'm really happy for you. You deserve it."

Sana smiled too, soft and genuine. "Thank you, Dahyunnie."

But the younger girl didn't leave it at that.

Her fingers drummed lightly on the counter, a subtle tension stiffening her posture.

"But…" Dahyun hesitated, looking at Sana closely now. "Unnie, that night... when the whole stalker thing happened… I couldn't shake this weird feeling."

Sana said nothing, only continued sipping her slushie with an unreadable expression.

Dahyun licked her lips nervously.

"You were too calm," Dahyun said slowly, choosing her words with care. "Too prepared. And when I remembered… the 'S' in the signed letters… it didn't sit right. It felt like someone trying too hard to fake being someone else."

Sana swirled her straw through the ice, the sound crackling sharp against the glass. For a moment, it was just the hum of the kitchen appliances and the slight buzz of city life outside their windows.

Then, after what felt like a lifetime, Sana spoke.

"You're smart, Dahyun."

Her voice was soft, but there was a weight behind it, something so heavy and knowing that Dahyun shivered despite herself.

Still, Dahyun pushed forward.

"Unnie… tell me the truth."

Sana turned fully now, setting her slushie down carefully.

She studied Dahyun's face with a fondness — almost like a big sister patiently watching a little sister trying to piece together a difficult puzzle.

"There was no random stalker," Sana said calmly.

Dahyun blinked, frozen.

"It was me," Sana said, voice steady, almost eerily calm. "I orchestrated everything."

The words dropped like stones into a still lake.

Dahyun gaped at her, mouth parting, eyes wide.

Sana tilted her head slightly, tucking a stray hair behind her ear.

"The letters? I wrote them. The woman who entered Oppa's place? I hired her to just scare him, not hurt him. She vanished right after, as instructed. The supposed 'arrest'? Faked. I made sure everyone thought she was taken to rehab, to tie the story off neatly."

Dahyun backed up a step without realizing it.

"W-Why?" she stammered. "Unnie, why would you…?"

Sana smiled, soft, sad, infinitely tender.

"Because I fell in love with him," she whispered. "Long before we properly met. When I listened to his show, when his voice was the only thing that felt real during my loneliest nights. He wasn’t just a host to me. He became my anchor."

Dahyun shook her head slightly, disbelief warring with understanding. This wasn’t the Sana she knew — the bubbly, playful, slightly airheaded unnie.

This was something deeper. Something far more intense and haunting.

"You manipulated him into trusting you," Dahyun whispered.

Sana shrugged lightly.

"I guided him," she corrected. "I gave him someone to turn to when he needed comfort. And he did. He chose me when he needed safety."

Dahyun stared at her, struggling to form coherent thoughts.

"That’s not love," Dahyun said, a little harsher than she intended. "That’s... parasocial. That’s obsession, unnie."

Sana’s expression didn’t change. If anything, it softened.

"Parasocial?" she echoed, almost amused. She stepped closer, placing a hand gently on Dahyun’s shoulder.

"If I wanted to possess him, if I wanted to destroy him, that would be obsession. But I wanted to love him. I wanted to give him something he didn’t even know he was missing."

Dahyun swallowed hard, her mouth dry.

"Unnie… do you even realize what you did?"

Sana smiled again — that same ethereal, bittersweet smile.

"I do," she said. "And I don’t regret it."

She picked up her slushie again, sipping it quietly, as if the confession she just delivered wasn’t earth-shattering.

"I love him," Sana said simply. "And now, he loves me. Naturally. Not because I forced him, but because I was the one who was there when it mattered most."

Dahyun felt like she was underwater, trying to surface.

"Are you… planning to tell him?"

Sana tilted her head again, playful, almost childlike.

"No," she said lightly. "And neither will you."

Dahyun opened her mouth to protest but Sana was already stepping forward, wrapping her arms around Dahyun tightly.

Her embrace was warm — sickeningly warm — and Dahyun could feel her heart hammering in her chest.

"Because you love me too, right?" Sana whispered into her ear. "You're my precious little sister. I know you won’t hurt me."

Dahyun stood there, paralyzed, as Sana pulled back with a dazzling smile.

For a moment, Dahyun almost believed it too.

Almost.

Later that night, when Sana was back in her room and Dahyun sat alone in the living room, staring blankly at the TV that wasn’t even turned on, a heavy silence wrapped itself around the dorm.

The world outside buzzed as usual — cars, neon signs, the endless hum of the city.

But inside, everything had changed.

And somewhere, far from the knowing, I sat oblivious — smiling at my phone, reading Sana’s latest text:

"I miss you already, Oppa. Sleep well, my love."

======================================

How far would you go for love? Where does devotion end and obsession begin? Is it wrong to create opportunities… if in the end, the feeling becomes real? Is a love born from lies still love… if it brings happiness?

In the end — Is it better to never know the truth?

Or is ignorance... the cruelest kindness of all?

[gregmarriage]

succ/brba crossover, where jesse and greg meet because greg goes to score drugs for kendall. then, he starts going to score pot for himself, bc jesse is nicer than a lot of other dealers, even if greg thinks he’s weird, and vice versa, but also, he’s a relaxing change of pace from the roys, and feels more akin to his old life, when he wants to go outside of himself and all the stress of his job and current life. he never has any idea what jesse gets up to, and neither does jesse of greg. one day, jesse disappears… and greg has to find a new dealer, and starts to forget about the weird fucking guy he used to smoke pot with sometimes.

[kayawolfhorse]

Discuss

[dxxtruction]

Something to just consider is that Armand is a collectivist. Culturally I think this makes sense, considering he would've been raised in his foundational years in that sort of culture that values collectivism over individualism. He's also had to live in several high control environments afterwards, which demanded servitude, where putting himself first would've led to trouble, up to and including death. In the Children of Darkness, for example, the very idea of seeking pleasure at all is against the commandments, and since he is forced to lead this group (under careful surveillance), he can not therefore show if he even wishes to seek pleasure, because this would disrupt the collective thought, and further, place a level of threat upon himself for disobeying the laws he's meant to be upholding. He's at threat that he can be killed for it, because that's how such laws are handled. So he necessarily can not hold an individualistic, self serving, opinion, and hope to live, and lived in that kind of envoirment for centuries. Even the TdV carries on the same sort of traditions to less strict, more secular, degrees. Seeking pleasure in TdV is rewarded, even exhaulted, but the great laws are still imposed to the level of threat which is death, and everyone is always surveilling each other on this matter. He's a collectivist, especially in situations which impose certain, or uncertain threat of violence, for going against the group, or person, as in such a situation being individualistic is perhaps the last thing you may get to ever do. Nothing personally driven, therefore, seems that worth it provided the risk.

Whether he remembers this earliest period of childhood, or not, those sorts of values (likely positive then as things like sharing, community building, reaching mutually beneficial decisions, aid, and consideration of others feelings). Ingrained into his personality, and he doesn't have the kind of amnesia where it appears his personality was fundamentally changed by it. Rather, that since it's more of a dissociative amnesia barrier protecting him from traumas, that his personality would rather be fragmented, as opposed to altered. (Meaning such values are still there, but are now also acting alongside various further alteration to what is means to be in collective. And that if such amnesiac parts ever do surface, it is only reacting as if it is re-experiencing, and in the same context to the trauma. Depending on how complex this part is it could take on further environmental inputs while in this state, developing or simply having, essentially, its own personality... but I digress).

He does things for the group, which can at times only be one person, more-so than he serves himself. Placing what serves situation and context more highly that individual personal traits and feelings. But, by thinking he has no self, he naturally falls to self justifying everything wrongful he personally does, as for the benefit of the group. It's a cognitive distortion which doesn't recognize it's own selfishness because it sees itself as being selfless regardless of actual outcome. Further, this makes it so he takes no responsibility for others actions he may have caused, or to how a situation came about because of himself, if he doesn't then apply having any self to that situation. He'll bend to opinion even if its false, and create or even take on an entire role of falsehood, if he believes it serves a mutual benefit.

He uses this as a kind of shield against the world he must fundamentally view as threatening, and imposing, with very limited spaces of safety. But doesn't impose himself in healthy ways, therefore becomes an enabler of certain toxic behaviors getting out of hand, and creating unsafe environments. Desiring such places being controlled, and predictable, environments, but not fostering what's needed for that, and certainly not in a healthy way. Rather lending to manipulating others, or using threats, or force, to make it so he's secure in this. Again, self justifying that it's for a collectivist benefit. If he does at all recognize his own selfishness it's due to how he's able to come out of his own cognitive distortions, and dissonance, and admit faults and failings. Seeing that hiding his own faults and failings from others is something selfish, and therefore that he does indeed have a self there. In doing so, developing an understanding that he acts as a self in all things, and therefore understanding the effects of his actions are actually his. (Or else falling right back into the distortions). He has to be selfish, in a way, to ever be truly selfless. If that's really his goal.

To want something for itself, as opposed to some other means. To want good, love, and safety, for itself as opposed to what it does. He has to develop a sense of his own idea of these things, in order to form a consistent and more secure identity, not founded or attached to a group or person. And further needs whatever self that is, to be embraced, by himself, and not insecure in how others would react to it. To not be afraid of this self expression and personal desire, thought, opinion, feeling, and so on. By developing his own person he'd be able to better embrace his own bad qualities, even change them. As he then feels he has such agency, and isn't just simply reacting and serving to the world around him. I think there's something in how he changes Daniel which says he is moving in sort of this direction, there's something in how it appears he's roaming around on his own right now that suggests he is on a journey of this sort. I'm not expecting greatness out of it, but I am thinking there will be progress for present day Armand in future seasons. I think he is capable of change, and is not fundamentally as he appears. (And this would align to his narrative arc in the books anyway.)

And just also like I don’t think he knows entirely where the boundaries of anything really are or should be. Between himself and others or like where right begins and wrong ends and so forth. Not a moment in his memorable life, mortal or immortal, hasn't been without the presence of vampires, and therefore conditioned more under vampiric understandings as opposed to human ones. And because he's disconsidering of self, and hasn’t exactly been modeled what these should be, he's not able to function sanely in his environment. He's not sane I think I can say. But I do think he’s someone who learns experientially, and can do that on his own, so where those must lie he’s not in total lack of awareness either.

[palameiad]

i privated my odyssey / epic odyseidon post sorry yall know i like the numbers but please do not perceive that post anymore 😭

[thecoolerliauditore]

“(self indulgent note: Pearl is kind of an exception to the rule for reasons but I cannot say lest I betray my own moral code. however my eyes go to her first anyway because she is stunningly beautiful she could wear a potato sack and it'd work)”

I mean, feel free to put your thoughts on the evil blog 👀

oh lmao okay scar moment didn't forsee that could be read as me saying I was attracted to her. I genuinely am not which is actually why I feel confident calling her beautiful, if I was I'd feel creepy. She's like. More of a supermodel or painting beautiful to me than anything else to me. Lots of words for "not my type" not that I have a chance anyway. I'm not actually attracted to any of the CCs now that I think about it.

The moral code is more in reference to how CC Pearl's more tomboyish tendencies translate to C!Pearl for me, and how alot of my thoughts on C!Pearl and gender relate to CC Pearl. Evil Bdubs interpretation chart token moving ever so slightly closer to RPF lite everyday. Although I will say I think CC Pearl doesn't really match C!Pearl's energy in a lot of other ways like presumably not being a murderer so I think I'm in the clear. It's just for flavouring guys I swear I swear

[verdantmeadows]

Alt text is an accessibility tool for many people, primarily those who are blind or visually disabled. It is not appropriate to ever use it as a punchline for a joke to tell a joke. Doing so takes away its reliability and trustworthiness. There are people who are INCAPABLE OF SEEING AN IMAGE OR FULLY SEEING AN IMAGE OTHERWISE. Using alt text to tell jokes HURTS THESE PEOPLE.

This post has like 8,000 notes. I'm so disappointed in how many people think this okay, but even more sad that many people don't understand how this is harmful or what alt text is even for. Please don't propagate or encourage these jokes. You are misusing and actively harming an accessibility tool. If you didn't know that this is what it was for, now you do know! Please do your part and don't spread such things.

Personal edit: I'd like to clarify that if you didn't know this, I don't want you to feel attacked or anything like that. It's okay you didn't know, but now that you do, you can do your best moving on! I said I was sad because I'm a visually impaired person and it can be sad that people don't know these things. I would have phrased this post a bit more objectively if I had known people would see it! It was just meant to be a personal expression of my feelings. I made this post as a visually impaired person myself who uses a screenreader.

Informational edit: This is ableist/bad because it ruins the integrity of the tool and makes people misunderstand what alt text is for. If people do this, it makes people falsely learn what alt text is and use it for notes, captions, or jokes. Misusing alt text ruins the integrity of the tool because it makes it so one cannot consistently rely on alt text to be accurate. It is also ableist because alt text literally just tells someone what an image is/says, so if someone cannot see the image, they don't necessarily have a way of knowing that the alt text is inaccurate, or they might be able to tell that it's a joke/caption, but then still have no idea what the actual image is/says.

[seospicybin]

TWO TRUTHS AND A LIE

ROUND 1

Lee Know x reader. (s)

Related chapters: Round 2.

Synopsis: Let's play two truths and a lie, and here goes the first thing about you: You want to fuck your roommate's boyfriend, Minho. (9k words)

Author's note: It's a quick one-shot I made like a year ago but pls enjoy it nonetheless 😊

Content warning: Infidelity.

This is how you play two truths and a lie. You share three statements about you, two being true and one false, and people must determine which is which.

-

So here goes the first statement: You want to fuck your roommate's boyfriend.

A few months ago, you came to the city for your new job and were placed in a housing with a group of unbearable people. Since you've just started working, you tried looking at another option to get a temporary place to stay until you're financially stable enough to rent an apartment.

Long story short, a friend of a friend introduced you to Kim who happened to have an extra room you can rent. She owns the apartment and does not necessarily need the money, she offered her room for the sole reason which is to help you. You're aware that you don't meet this kind of that is to help you. You're aware that you don't meet this kind of person every day and for that, you're grateful for her.

After a week of living as roommates, you learn that Kim is just as graceful as her occupation, a ballet dancer. She's beautiful, kind-hearted, amicable, and ultimately, a very attentive roommate.

The room you're staying in was supposedly her private dance studio but she uses the living room to practice now and you have to adjust yourself to the huge mirror covering one side of the wall in your room.

Not long after that, Minho comes into the picture. A sharp nose, sharp jaws, and feline eyes, a beautiful face that only reminds you that the world is unfair to some people, including you.

"This is Minho," Kim introduces him with a smile

The second your eyes lock in a gaze with him, you feel an instant attraction and it intensifies as he stares back into your eyes.

"My boyfriend," Kim adds a little too late.

It's funny that the word boyfriend doesn't stop you from being attracted to him, if anything, you want him more than before.

Kim and Minho have been together for two years now and they met at the dance academy which explains a lot of things, including Minho's lean and toned body.

How do you know? Because sometimes he stays over and on more than one occasion, you found him walking out of the bathroom with nothing but a white towel hanging lowly around his waist.

That's also when you learn that this attraction is strictly physical, your uterus is acting up when you see him, and lewd thoughts rush through your head. It's all biological. There's no way you want to pursue him romantically, you couldn't even think of a person more deserving to be with him than Kim. They're both beautiful and talented dancers, oftentimes, you get so envious because they have such a lovely relationship.

Like tonight, you hear their laughter the second you step into the apartment, finding Kim and Minho in the kitchen just casually talking to each other while sharing a bowl of fruits. You love how simple yet endearing their interaction is.

"Hey, you're home!" Kim says with a sweet, welcoming smile.

You wave your hand at her and briefly at Minho, "Hi, everyone!" You awkwardly say, feeling like you're interrupting them.

"Have you had dinner?" Kim asks, attentive as always.

"Yeah, I grabbed dinner after work," you lie, but you can always creep your way to the fridge late at night for dinner.

"There's a pie in the fridge. Help yourself to some dessert," she sweetly offers then shoves a piece of blueberry into her mouth.

Without having to look, you can see how Minho looks at you, he has this deep, intense gaze that makes you the slightest bit intimidated.

"I will, thanks," you hurriedly respond, wanting the interaction to end as soon as possible, "I'll just... get into my room."

"Yeah, you should rest," Kim softly mutters.

You hoist your bag higher on your shoulder and head to your room, before you get in, you mutter to them, "Night, guys."

"Night," Kim cheerily says.

You hurriedly get in and catch a glimpse of Minho with his intense stare a second before the door completely closes and clicks in place.

The trick to surviving the night is to wait until they get into the bedroom and put headphones on as you come out of yours, not only to avoid hearing unwanted noises, but you reckon it's only right to take the extra measure to respect their privacy.

As you're listening and catching glimpses of the movie playing on your phone, you walk around the kitchen to prepare your simple, unhealthy dinner: a cup of noodles and a can of soda.

You're quietly eating your dinner by the kitchen counter with the headphones still on and once you finished, you treat yourself to a slice of pie, then put the rest of the pie back into the fridge.

It gets messy as you're munching on the pie while watching the movie on your phone. The cherry filling gets all over your fingers and you hurriedly lick it off before it gets—

"Oh, my God!" You shriek in surprise, seeing someone standing by the fridge. Once you realize it's Minho, you break into laughter.

"I'm just getting a bottle of water," he says, his face illuminated by the glow of the fridge lights.

"I'm sorry," you say while clutching your chest, and a second later, regret for saying it when he should be the one apologizing.

There's something different in the way Minho looks at you, he has one corner of his mouth raised higher than the other, giving you the impression that he's thinking of filthy things when he looks at you like that. He's giving you that look now and it does certain things to you.

He then stops leaning against the fridge, taking the bottle of water as he walks back to the bedroom, leaving his signature faint smirk on the back of your head.

The signals are there, they're subtle yet constantly pinging, asking you to respond. For now, you're going to ignore it like you always do and continue existing like you're not sharing the same space with him.

-

Statement number two: You believe Minho wants to fuck you too.

At first, you thought you imagined it, you want to fuck him so you started being delusional and thinking that he wants to fuck you too. Once you started paying attention though, you realized that what he's been doing to you meant something or some sort of message he tried to deliver.

The first occurrence that came to your realization is when the two of you were in the kitchen, you were enjoying your yoghurt and he suddenly came behind you to get something from the drawer that happened to be blocked by your body. Instead of telling you to step aside, he made you stand there as his hand curved around your waist to get something out of a drawer.

From there, you noticed a lot of things he did, the way he briefly rested his hand on the small of your back as he walked past behind you, his hand that would often brush a part of your body when the two of you are next to each other or the way he would speak close to your ear as if he's seeking to be close to you. Simply put, he always tries to make physical contact with you.

The scariest part of it is not the possibility that the two of you will eventually get caught, but how unfazed he is even when his girlfriend is there. Like that night where the three of you shared the sofa and somehow, his hand found your shoulder and instead of retreating, he continued to caress the nape of your neck with his knuckle.

However, what happens tonight is what makes you believe that he wants the same thing.

After making sure that you're the only one still awake in the vicinity, you make your way to the bathroom to take a nice, hot shower to help you relax and sleep faster. You skip on using the hairdryer since it'll make too much noise and tiptoe your way back to your bedroom.

In the middle of putting on your clothes, you realize that you left the door ajar and you notice Minho is watching through the reflection in the mirror.

Instead of stopping or rushing to close the door, you pretend to not see him there and continue, turning your body to the side, showcasing every curve of your body through the reflection in the mirror.

You arch your back as you put on the night dress over your head and slowly slip yourself in it, shimmying your body as you pull the dress down with your hands. Then you look at him through the reflection in the mirror and make it known that you're aware of his presence.

From the crooked grin on his face, you can tell that Minho is pleased to be caught watching you and you received his signal loud and clear: He wants to fuck you too.

But sadly, tonight's show is over so you walk to the door and close it.

-

Friday afternoon, Kim barges into your room and she rarely comes into your room without knocking on your door. Seeing that she's carrying a dress in her hand, you guess she needs your opinions on her clothing choices.

You sit on the bed and take your headphones off, "What's up, Kim?"

She stands at the end of the bed and lifts the dress with both hands, "What do you think?" She asks.

It's a mini dress with spaghetti straps in a deep purple color and it's a nice dress, you're just not sure if it fits Kim's style that well, she usually opts for dresses with flaring hem and floral prints.

"It's nice, Kim," you say but skip on giving her the detailed explanation.

She puts the dress close to her body and hugs it, "Do you like it?"

"Yeah," you shortly reply, even though it doesn't fit her style well, it certainly will look good on her.

"Good!" She shortly says, handing the dress to you, "Cause you'll be wearing it.

Somehow, you reach for it and awkwardly hold it in front of you, "W-why? Why me?"

Kim goes to your vanity table and flips open your jewelry box, she holds your earrings one by one to find ones that would match the dress.

"You're coming with me to this party," she says, leaving a lot of details in her answer.

"What party?"

"Party at my friend's," she simply answers, deciding on the gold small hoop earrings.

But that's against your plan, you want to steer clear of Minho and party at Kim's friend means that he'd likely be there too.

"Kim, I don't think that's a good idea," you tell her.

She then leans against the desk in your room and crosses her arm together in front of her, "These past few days you refused to hang out with me so you have to hang out with me tonight."

So Kim knows that you've been purposely avoiding her but you need to explain that it's not because of her, "But that's not—"

"Nuh-uh!" She quickly cuts you off again, "Tonight you're going to the party with me," she decides on her own, not accepting any more excuses from you.

"Is it okay though? I mean... it's your friend's party. I don't want to intrude," you meekly say while playing with the strap of the dress.

"Why would it not be okay?" She says, coming to sit on the edge of the bed, "Besides I want to introduce you to Gaspard."

Maybe you owe this one to Kim and hearing a guy's name piques your interest, "And who is Gaspard?"

"A cute guy," she shortly answers with a sly grin on her heart-shaped face, "And you'll like him."

It's not like Minho's presence would bother you that much and Kim needs you, she wants you there, therefore, as a good roommate, you should be there.

"Yeah, okay, I'm in the mood to meet a cute guy tonight," you tell her, not forgetting to show enthusiasm as well.

"That's the spirit!" Kim says with a wide grin dancing on her face.

Well, since you'll be there and possibly meet Minho, Gaspard better be a cute distraction for real.

-

The taxi pulls up in front of a house and you reckon it's where the party at from how many cars are parked outside and the faint thumping of the music playing inside.

The fact that you get here by taxi only means that there's no Minho so you can relax, for now.

Kim excitedly links her arm with you as you both walk into the house and you expect a party with laid-back music and endless glasses of wine but the second you step inside, upbeat music is blasting from around the house and everyone is having beers from red plastic cups.

The party is not what you imagined it would be, but it's what you need.

Kim cranes her neck to find her friends and once she finds them, she raises her hand to signal her arrival to them.

"Come on! Let's meet my friends!" She says.

Please, God, let him be a cute distraction! You repeatedly mutter in your heart as she drags you with her to meet her friends who are gathered in what you guess is a rec room in the house.

When Kim's friends finally come to sight, you put on a smile as you quietly guess which one of them is Gaspard. Kim goes to hug them one by one before introducing you to them.

"This is Ellie, Jena, Paul..." she introduces her friends back to you one by as the mentioned person warmly greets you.

"And Minho," someone adds from behind you.

You immediately look over your shoulder to see Minho standing there, Kim gently slaps his shoulder in response and laughs.

"This is not a roll call, honey," Kim says with a smile and then leans in to give Minho a quick peck on the lips.

Minho is already here and there's no Gaspard yet. No Gaspard means there'll be no distraction. You keep your smile on even though you're slowly descending into distress.

"There he is!" Kim exclaims, pointing at something behind you.

You reflexively turn on your heels and see a tall man with brown hair, striking green eyes, and a scintillating smile. This man will make the perfect distraction.

Please let this man be Gaspard, you deeply wish inside your heart.

Kim comes to your side and puts her arm around you, "This is the man I told you about," she says.

"I hope you only told her nice things about me," Gaspard says with a sly grin that makes his whole face light up.

The universe heard your plea and decided to make it true for you, this is Gaspard, the perfect distraction you want and need.

"Holyfuck..." you lowly mutter in disbelief.

"What's that?" Kim asks, hearing you saying something but doesn't quite catch it.

You've already forgotten where you are and what you're doing. And Minho? Who is Minho? You let out a chuckle and shake these silly thoughts away.

"So this is Gaspard, huh?" You say in all confidence.

"That is me," he answers, returning the confidence with a wide smile, "I'm better than you expected, I guess?"

Gaspard is confident and then gets shy in the next minute which you find charming, you smile at him and say, "I need more time to decide on that."

"That's fair," Gaspard says, offering his hand at you.

You think he's just going to shake your hand but he takes you into the crowd gathered in the middle of the room, dancing.

"A fair warning, I'm a bad dancer," you warn him as he takes your hands in his and makes you stand facing him.

"We still have time to decide on that," he pokes fun at you, taking you by the waist and pulling you close to his front.

Kim is right, Gaspard is cute and you like him already. He has just the right amount of facial hair and it grazes your cheek whenever he leans in to whisper into your ear, giving you a tingling feeling inside and outside.

After a few moments though, you find yourself panting from dancing with him. You should've known this would happen when you're dancing with a real dancer.

Since Gaspard is way taller than you, you have to put your arm around his shoulder and stand on your tiptoe to whisper to his ear, "Hey, how about we get drinks?"

"Drinks?" He asks you in confirmation since the mix of loud music and chatter is filling the room.

"Yeah," you answer while repeatedly nodding your head.

He doesn't say anything but takes your hand and leads the way through the crowd to the kitchen where bottles of liquor are strewn around on the kitchen island.

You intently watch as Gaspard is excitingly making you his special concoction. He finishes it off with a spritz of lemon before handing it to you.

"Thank you," you mutter in gratitude.

"Come on. Taste it!" He encourages you, curious of what you think of his drink-mixing skill.

Well, you've been staring at it long enough to give him the impression that you hesitate to drink it. You hurriedly take a small sip and you don't even have to lie, it's good.

"Wow!" You gasp, impressed with the drink he made.

"I know," he confidently says with a smirk and drinks his drink.

It's so refreshing and sweet like it has no alcohol at all, you hurriedly take another sip.

"It's really good," you tell him.

"Thank you," he says with a grin.

He then offers his hand at you, "Let's find somewhere to talk?"

You take his hand without question, letting him take you wherever he wants because it seems like he knows where he's going. He leads you to the backyard where everyone is hanging out by the pool.

"Hey, you!"

Recognizing the voice, your head snaps toward the source, and see Kim waving her hand at you from the long sofa that curved around a fancy fireplace.

You stop walking on your track and end up leading Gaspard there. You unconsciously let out a sigh of relief after seeing that there's no Minho there.

"Oh, hey," you greet back.

Kim scoots to the side to make space for you on the sofa, "Where have you guys been?"

"Oh, we were just dancing and he made me a drink," you honestly answer, not forgetting to show her the drink in your hand.

"And where were you going to take her, Gaspard?" Kim asks with eyes squinted at him.

"Anywhere but here," he jokingly answers.

"Well, since you guys just got here, it's your turn to play!" Someone says, you can't remember what her name is but she's one of the friends Kim introduced earlier.

"Turn to play? What?" You ask in confusion.

"Two truths and a lie," someone says.

You feel bad for not being able to remember their names, Gaspard's influence is that powerful on you.

"You know how to play, right?" Kim asks.

It's not about whether you know how to play or not, it's just so unexpected that these talented, gorgeous dancers like to play this kind of game at parties.

"Yes, I do," you answer.

Kim turns on the sofa to face you and looks at you in anticipation, "Okay then. Shoot!"

"Right now?"

"Yes," Kim shortly answers with a chuckle.

You admire their eagerness whether for the game or to know something about you, you rake your brain to think of three things about you and one of them should be a lie that would likely fool them good.

"Okay first is uhm... I'm allergic to cats," you share.

There's no response from them but you can see how they're looking at you and probably every detailed facial expression you make that will give away hints about whether you're lying or not.

"Second thing is my mom has a twin," you confidently share with a faint smile.

"Ah," Kim lowly gasps and you guess because you've shared this information with her before.

"Last thing is..." you look around as you think of the last thing to share with them.

You eventually turn to the side and see Gaspard smiling at you, "I think Gaspard is cute," you share the third thing about you.

"That's the one! That's the lie!" Someone excitedly guesses, and you suddenly remember his name as Paul.

You laugh because Gaspard looks so offended by his friend, "No, it's not a lie," you quickly defend him.

Gaspard shoots him a glare and triumphantly laughs, "Just drink, man!"

Paul drinks his beer in defeat.

"I must say the second one is the lie," the girl says again, still can't remember her name though.

"No. Her mom has a fraternal twin," Kim says, learning that information from you on the first day you moved into her apartment.

"Drink up, Jena!" Kim tells her that she guessed wrong and not wasting time but drinks her beer as a punishment.

"Oh, so you're not allergic to cats?" Gaspard asks.

"No, I'm not. I like cats," you answer.

He then sighs in relief, "That's great because I have a cat."

"Oh, wow?!" You utter in disbelief.

Other than being a great distraction, you share a lot in common with Gaspard and that says something.

"I also have cats," someone adds, joining in on the circle.

You can tell by the voice that it's the man you've been trying to avoid seeing tonight. You remain calm and have a sip of your drink.

"Yes, Minho, we all know you're a cat daddy," Jena says, finally knowing her name from Kim.

Kim groans and tosses a cushion at Jena, "Don't say that!"

Minho takes a gulp of Kim's drink and sits with his back reclined and his legs spread open, even his sitting position oozing with confidence and you eat that shit up.

You feel like slapping your face at that thought and have another sip to swallow that thought down.

"Is it my turn to play?" Minho asks around.

Jena shrugs since no one is taking the turn to play, "Yeah, sure, go ahead."

Minho softly scratches his chin before speaking, "I want to kiss someone tonight."

He starts easy but from the faint smirk on his face, you can tell he's brewing something in his mind.

"That someone is not my girlfriend," he calmly says.

Welp, there you go! Minho acts like he didn't just drop a shocking statement while his girlfriend is sitting prettily next to him.

You glance at Kim and she looks calm, but you can see that her jaws are slightly clenched. She's not happy so Minho should stop it.

But instead of calming his girlfriend, Minho looks at you and continues to share the third statement, "The person I want to kiss is one of you."

Your heart skips a beat because he keeps looking right at you and making it obvious for everyone to see who it is. All of a sudden, you feel the urge to exit this scene but walking out only makes it even more obvious.

Minho is sick of doing this to you and Kim, it's like he doesn't even care what it can do to either you or Kim.

"Oh, Minho, that's..." Paul hisses, not able to finish his sentence.

"Why, Paul?" Minho daringly asks him.

"Nothing," Paul says while scratching his head.

Minho leans forward and says, "It's you, Paul. It's you who I want to kiss."

Paul's tense face melts in a second and everyone bursts out laughing, "Fuck you, man!"

"It's you. I want to kiss you," Minho taunts him more, throwing himself at him and jokingly tries to kiss him.

Paul keeps pushing him away, sloshing his drink as he tries to dodge Minho's kiss while everyone else is laughing at them.

Even though it turns out to be a joke, you feel sick in the stomach and feel the need to get out of here.

"I need to go to the restroom," you mutter, getting up from the sofa.

Gaspard puts down his drink, "I can show you—"

"It's okay. I can go by myself," you tell him off, you regret being so crass but you're sure he'll understand.

"Okay," he says, sitting back down on the sofa.

While clutching the hem of your dress, you head back inside the house and find the bathroom to only queue to get inside, you decide to try on the second floor. You can easily find the bathroom as it's wedged between two bedrooms.

It's a party, you're sure the host would be okay with you using their bathroom, you don't even need to pee or something, you just need a space to vent.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," you keep muttering to the reflection in the mirror.

When you touch your neck, you can feel a sheen of sweat there so you run your hands under the cold water and tap it to your neck.

This is the first time you realize what it'll do to you when it comes to following your desire. You'll ruin not only their relationship but also your friendship with Kim and she's been nothing but good to you.

"Fuck!" You mutter once again as you splash cold water on your face like it would help to put some sense into you.

Coming here was a bad idea!

But you're already here so you only need to stick to your plan, staying away from Minho and sticking with Gaspard. You allow yourself to spend a few more minutes just to compose yourself before coming out of the bathroom.

As you're about to climb down the stairs, the plan comes to a failure.

You see Minho is coming up the stairs and he seems to be looking for you as well from the way he stops once he finds you.

Instead of avoiding him as you planned, you feel the need to confront him about what happened a while ago. You grab the front of his shirt and take him into one of the bedrooms. The first one is locked so you try the other one and it's empty.

Once both of you are inside, you slam the door shut and push him against it.

"What the hell are you doing?" You aggressively ask, pushing his chest until his back hits the door.

"What? What am I doing?" He plays innocent but that smirk knows it all.

You slap his chest with both of your hands now but all you can feel is how firm his pecs are.

"You just don't care, do you?"

He puts his hands on each side of your waist and draws you closer, not hesitating to plant his mouth on your jaw.

"Minho!" You whine, ending up getting trapped in his hold with his arms wrapped tightly around you.

He glides his lips up and presses a kiss there on the skin under your ear, sending a tingling down your spine as his warm breath brushes your skin.

You helplessly dodge away from his lips yet somehow, he manages to capture your lips in a kiss and oh, you hate it so much! You hate how you like the way he kisses you, so passionately and hungrily, he makes it known that he wants it so much.

Okay, maybe the kiss is a slip-up and you hurriedly pull yourself out of it. You push him and pull away from the kiss.

"You know we can't do this," you mutter but you're looking at his lips, tempted to kiss him again.

He ignores your words and kisses you again, and you fall into it again. You try harder this time and break the kiss.

"Minho!" You whine, looking away to not let the temptation win again.

Using it as an opportunity, Minho plants his mouth on your ear and nibbles on it, peeling a layer off of your sanity which brings you to slip down the slope again.

Your lips are colliding again, harder and deeper, causing even more damage than the previous one as his hands go all over you and pull the straps of your dress down your shoulders.

The two logics in your head are clashing against each other, the one wants to satisfy this desire and the other wants to get out of this situation altogether. If you follow the former then at least, your curiosity will be fulfilled and if you follow the latter, then you get to keep the peace.

As you are caught in that inner battle, you blank out and stiffen against him.

"We have to stop," you mutter to him.

But is that what you want? To stop when you already have your toes dipped in the water?

Minho also takes a moment to assess the situation, he looks at you with his lips red and wet, "it has to stop," he says in agreement.

You take a step back and feel the sudden detachment as he lets go of you and you can't believe that he agrees right away that this is the better decision. You can't help but think that he doesn't want you enough.

He stays standing there, leaning against the door and looking at you with his eyes dark and wide with lust.

"So what do we do now?"

That's such a wrong thing to ask you because what you want to do now is be selfish for the night, for one fucking night, and if you're going to do it, you may as well go all in, right?

Take the chance or pass? Right or wrong? Continue or stop? Now or never?

"Fuck!" you heavily sigh and take down the straps of your dress, sending your breasts spilling out of the front.

"Suck my tits," you order.

It takes Minho a moment to process it and when he finally catches on that you've made up your mind, he goes for it. He comes at you full speed, hands off the brake and head first.

His mouth lathers at your breasts before sucking at them like you asked, taking them in turns, and leaving them wet with his saliva.

"Nibble on my nipples," you command.

You look down to watch him obeying you, using his tongue to nibble on your blossoming buds and alternating it with his teeth next.

"Oh, fuck," you breathlessly mutter as he sucks hard on your nipple.

While his mouth is busy latching on your breasts, his hands are snaking to the back and kneading at your asscheeks, caressing them with his fingers, and teasing your underwear.

This feels so wrong yet so good, you have your inner battle still but your logic is being defeated by your body's needs. You pull him by the shoulder and make him kiss you again so you'll stop thinking.

The rattles on the door startle you both and Minho immediately pushes the door with his back, then holds the knob to not let anyone in. Whoever tries to get it seems to figure out that the room is occupied.

"Sorry," someone says from behind the door.

Minho immediately locks the door while you take a step back from him, he gives you that look again, the kind of look that sees right through you and knows that you feel conflicted inside.

"Kim is my good friend," you tell him, feeling a pang of sadness in your chest that it aches.

He comes at you again and kisses you in which you're returning with the same eagerness. He seems to know that it's the only way to make you stop talking and thinking altogether. He pulls you closer than before his hands snaking to your rear, cupping the ample flesh in his hand.

"This is terrible," you mutter as you break the kiss so you can take your underwear off.

"This is terrible..." you mutter again, pulling him close by the waistband of his jeans and proceeding to unzip his fly open, "Betraying her like this."

It's like your body has a mind of its own, it's doing the opposite of what you're saying.

You impatiently take his semi-hard out of its confine and stroke it in your hand, "terrible," you emphasize the word and nail it deep into your head.

Minho doesn't say anything but follows what your body wants, he kisses you again, sloppily with his hands mindlessly roaming around your body.

"Touch me there," you whisper into him.

Without looking, his hand knows where to go. It goes to where you want him to be, going to the front to that wetness between your legs.

"Put your fingers in."

Minho runs his fingers down your slit repeatedly before inserting his finger into you. One digit is enough to make you moan in pleasure as he pumps it in and out of you.

"Add one more."

He draws his finger out and brings his index and middle fingers, shoving them into your mouth to wet them with your saliva. He brings them back to your entrance and slowly pushes them inside.

"Fuck, oh..." you moan, burying your head in his neck.

Two fingers are going in and out of you and you're already losing it. You start to think of what his cock would be like inside you as it feels hot and hard in your hand, pulsating with so much desire.

His lips nestle in your neck, kissing and lightly sucking on the skin as your body clings to him for support.

"Curl them— Oh!"

Minho knows what to do, he curls his fingers and carefully finds that spot that makes you whine and moan at the same time, and the lewd noise echoes in the dimly lit room.

You look over your shoulder to locate the bed and start steering his body there, walking backward without having to take hands off of each other.

He slowly pulls out and breaks the kiss only to pull your dress up, making the dress hunched around your waist. You plop down onto the bed and get on, you take a moment to continue undoing his jeans and pull it down enough to let his erection free.

Without thinking, you put his cock into your mouth, take him as much as you can and compensate for the rest you can't take with your hand. You lick and suck, alternating those two as you enjoy every inch of his delicious length with your mouth.

Minho tangles his hand in your hair and gently tugs at it, "I feel so guilty," he says.

Oh, so he's not that selfish after all but the thought of him thinking of his girlfriend with his cock deep in your mouth doesn't make you jealous at all, it makes you feel more aroused than before.

"Oh, so guilty," he says between his hoarse, low moans as he stares back into your eyes.

You slowly pull away and replace your mouth with your hand, restlessly pumping his swollen cock.

"You should be," you tell him, sticking your tongue out of your mouth and swirling it around the pink tip of his cock.

All of a sudden, he grabs your hand and takes it away from his length, he then takes your other hand to pin it against the bed. He hovers above you as he kisses you again, his tongue prying open your mouth to taste more of you.

You can feel him rubbing his length between your folds and you spread your legs open so he can do it more, making you drenched than you already are.

It's obvious to you now that you want him, you want him so bad and what you want is only inches away from you, and you can feel how much he wants you.

"Put it in," you breathlessly say against his lips.

Minho wastes no time to position himself between your legs. He then holds his cock, lubricating it with your essence and giving it a few pumps to finally aims it toward your entrance.

The more time he takes to be inside you, the more impatient you get.

"Put it deep inside me," you demand, opening your legs wider for him.

Yet Minho keeps teasing your entrance, heightening your anticipation and the tension in the room, making you arching your back at him.

When he finally pushes in, he only inserts the tip. It's just the tip but Gosh! It feels good already when he starts thrusting at a slow, steady pace.

"That's it," you say, keeping your waist afloat to take more of him, "all the way in."

Minho is just as impatient. He takes your wish as his command and pushes the rest of his length into you, hitting you deep inside that you blank out and you can't hear your own scream of pleasure.

It only registered to you now that it's all real once you take a look at how his cock is fully buried deep inside you and there's nothing like the feeling of finally having your desire fulfilled. Minho feels so good inside you, every inch of his length fills you perfectly like he was made just for you.

"Oh..." you loudly moan as he starts moving.

You're in and out of you at how hard he's thrusting into you that it reverberates throughout your body and in the middle of it, you manage to look at him, his face is masked with pleasure from the way his eyes are half shut and his lips pressed together.

Maybe the two of you want it so much that the sex feels rushed and a little rough, almost animalistic even. You can feel you're about to cum and so is he.

"Don't cum inside," you warn him before bringing his head close for a sloppy kiss on his lips.

In return, Minho goes sloppy with his thrusts that the bed quakes along with his movements and you're gripping the sheet to hold on to. He's twitching inside you and your legs are shaking. The knot in your stomach keeps tightening and you feel like exploding at any minute now.

He incessantly thrusts into you while you keep gripping the sheet, he probably senses that you're on the brink of climaxing and takes you there, sending you into your release with your eyes screwed shut, seeing white. He cums not long after you and keeps himself deep into you, completely forgetting your warning.

When it occurs to you that he completely forgot about your warning, you slowly push him away and force him to pull out of you.

"I told you not to cum inside," you whine.

Minho's eyes fixated on the way his cum drips out of you, pearly white and glistening wet, inviting him to taste. He finds a way to solve it by settling his head between your legs and licking your mixed juices off of your cunt and not hesitating to swallow it. He sucks on your gushing hole before using his tongue to insert it, he makes sure to not leave any drop of his cum in you.

Watching him eating you and swallowing his own cum is getting you off in the best way, you suddenly don't mind it that much that he cum inside you. If anything, you want him to fill you so you get to watch him do it all over again.

"Stop, Minho! Stop!" You tell him, tugging at his hair to stop him from diving further into your wetness.

He abruptly stops and lifts his head with his mouth and chin glistening wet with your essence. You grab him by the front of his shirt and make him hover above you again. You know you already got what you want and it's time to stop.

What are you going to do now? You ask yourself.

Seize the chance. This is probably the last time you ever had this chance and this could be the one and only chance. You roll him over and straddle him, thinking of having him again for the last time, selfishly.

Taking a moment for this could be the only chance you get to do it, you look at him and his beautiful face, and you allow yourself to kiss his lips. You're running your hands down his clothed chest and patiently unbuttoning his shirt, then part it open to reveal his toned upper half body.

It's only fair if you get to touch him all over too so you do it, using your hands and your lips next, it's just you and miles and miles of his warm, honey skin.

Minho lets you do everything as he lays on his back, watches you kissing every inch of his abdomen, and eventually has him in your mouth again. He props his hands against the bed to see how your lips wrapped around his cock.

After a while, you suddenly pull out and gasp for air, "We have to stop."

He sits up on the bed and puts your hair away from your face, "But I don't want to stop," he says, then continues putting your hair away to the back so he can kiss your neck, chest, and breasts.

They're just words, they've been just words that you say in vain and have no effect to make you stop whatsoever. You only say that just to remind you that this feels so wrong but it feels good to do it.

You sit on his lap and position his cock at your entrance again, slowly, you lower yourself on him. You let out a mewl as you take him in little by little, feeling his girth stretching you out.

"Do you want to stop?" He asks you with his hands cradling your head in between.

"We have to," you sigh with your eyes closed, overwhelmed by his cock that buries deep inside you.

"I don't want to," he breathlessly says, holding you by the waist, guiding you to start moving.

Putting your arms around his shoulders for support, you're switching between pulsating and rolling your hips around him as he latches his lips on your neck and chest.

Somehow, he feels bigger and harder inside you, and he fills you better, therefore, you just want to keep feeling his length around you. However, in the middle of it, your logic fights to come out of you.

"This is wrong," you breathlessly mutter.

"Mmh-hmm," he hums against your lips, mindlessly answering to you.

"This is so wrong, Minho," you say again as you keep moving to chase your high.

If this is wrong then why it feels so good? If this is wrong then you never want to be right. If this is wrong then you want to be a sinner, forever.

"Oh, I can't do this anymore," you cry, it's unclear whether it's the body or your conscience speaking.

"Keep going, keep going," he repeatedly mutters through his gritted teeth, watching you bouncing on his cock.

The sex is more intense and harder than the previous one, you keep holding your breath even though you're running out of air. Your nails dug into his skin, your mouth locked with his lips, and you feel a sheen of sweat forming on your skin.

It all comes down to the one moment when everything hits you all at once. Other than the wave of dopamine and oxytocin that surge through your body, you feel good, you feel light and happy, but underneath that, you feel that bitter feeling, guilt that is gnawing and eating you alive from the inside.

You open your eyes and find Minho looking at you with a soft gaze and it feels tender that you feel like crying, or you're about to as you feel tears forming in the corners of your eyes.

"Oh, God! What have I done?" You roughly brush the hair stuck to your moist forehead.

"It's okay," Minho says, trying to justify this act of betrayal.

"Oh, my God!" You press the heels of your palms to your eyes to stop you from crying.

Minho gently holds your chin and softly presses a kiss on your lips as if he's trying to take the pain away but that's useless because you caused this yourself and he's a part of the problem.

But his kiss no longer holds the same effect, you feel restless the more he kisses you so you slowly pull away and keep a safe space between you and him.

"Let's just stop," you say with a sigh and then rush to get off his lap. You lowly gasp from the sudden emptiness and once your feet touch the floor, you're staggering backward.

Then, you feel it, his hot cum that drips out of you and down your inner thigh.

"I can help you with that," Minho offers.

You immediately hold your hand up at him and firmly say, "Just stop!"

You start fixing your dress, putting your arm in the straps, and pulling them to your shoulders. You look around for your underwear and once you find it, you put it on.

"Kim can't know about this," you meekly say as you pull the hem of your dress and smooth them down.

There's no looking back at it now. You've got what you wanted and now it's time to move on. You turn the door knob and head out without saying anything else.

Rejoining the party downstairs, you immediately head to the kitchen to get a drink but on the way there, someone catches you by the hand.

"Come, dance with me!" Kim says with a grin, pulling you with her to the middle of the room.

"Kim, I–" you can't find anything to say to her without the guilt clogging your throat, "I need a drink."

"Here. Have mine!" She hands you her cup.

"I'll get us drinks and get back to you, okay?" You kindly refuse her but she won't let go of your hand.

"Oh, come on, it's my favorite song!" She pleads with her puppy eyes, making you feel worse than you already are.

Seeing her and how oblivious she is to what you and Minho have done is breaking your heart.

That brings you to the third and last statement: That will be the first and the last time you've had sex with Minho.

-

Things are going back to normal. Or that's what it seems to you.

You're still roommates with Kim and she's still oblivious about what you and Minho did behind her back which means he keeps true to his promise.

And yes, he still comes to the apartment but it doesn't bother you as it used to. You learn that your friendship with Kim is far more valuable than his boyfriend's cock, in fact, you've been taking her kindness for granted.

So for these past few days, you've been trying to avoid them as much as possible. You purposely come home late from work and if you do find them together in the apartment, you make excuses to stay in your bedroom.

Fewer interactions means fewer chances of this guilt from bringing you down further.

The new plan is to get your own place as soon as possible and for that to happen, you have to start looking for it.

Today, Gaspard offers to help you check a few places and it's also the perfect getaway than staying in the apartment. You quietly get dressed and slip out of your bedroom to find Kim catches you while dunking her teabag into her cup.

"Where are you going?" She asks.

You don't want to tell her about it yet that you plan on moving out soon so you make up an excuse on the spot, "Just getting a few things for work, yeah," you lie.

She tosses the teabag into the trash and uses a spoon to stir it, "Just getting a few things for work, huh?"

"Yeah, I need new work shoes," you lie again, seamlessly this time.

"And you think you don't need my help?"

"No, no," you hastily reply, "I just know how much you like staying in on the weekends."

"I would to go out on the weekend too."

Kim keeps misunderstanding you so you decide to tell her, "I'm going out with Gaspard," you admit, but keep the details from her.

Kim lets out a laugh and puts down her cup of tea, "Oh, my God! Why did you lie about it?"

"I don't know. It feels weird," you awkwardly answer.

"Why would it be weird? Cause he's my friend?"

"Yeah..." you meekly say.

She laughs again and comes up to you, "Why would it be weird that my roommate is going out with my good friend?"

That's true, this is nothing compared to fucking your roommate's boyfriend. You swallow the guilt that crawls out of your throat.

"I can lend you my shoes to match it with that cute dress?" She offers, kind as always.

"No, it's fine. It's comfortable this way," you say, opting for the sneakers you're wearing since you're going to do a lot of walking today.

"As long as you're comfortable," she says, fixing your hair as she speaks.

The front door opens and the two of you are turning your heads to see who's coming, it's none other than Minho. You hurriedly sling your purse around your shoulder and ready to leave.

"I'd better get going," you tell Kim, giving her a quick hug.

"You can come home as late as you want," she jokingly says as she hugs you back, "Actually, don't bother coming home tonight."

You laugh it off and pull away while ignoring Minho who walks to the kitchen to get something out of the fridge. You head for the door and wave bye at Kim before getting out.

-

The search for a new place comes to fruition, you have two potential living spaces but the only problem is you can't afford the rent, yet.

You end the day with a hearty dinner also as a treat for Gaspard for being so helpful and patient with you. He's simply a great guy to be with and you wonder why didn't you want to fuck him instead of Minho.

Oh fuck, you think about Minho again and it reminds you that he's in the apartment now so you stay out as late as you can. You consider Gaspard's offer to come and visit his place but you don't want to give him the impression that this is a date.

It's too casual to be counted as a date in the first place but you make sure to promise him a proper one next time.

"Maybe next time when I'm not sweaty and the day is not as humid as today," you kindly refuse the offer.

"I agree," he says as his hair turns a lot curler in this humidity and shyly brushes it to the back.

He walks you to the entrance of your apartment building and you turn on your feet to face him, "Thank you for today," you sincerely say.

"No worries. I had fun today," he coyly says with a smile.

You know he wants to kiss you and you want to kiss him too because he's just so attractive and fun to be with, he's a great guy... you can list so many reasons why you should kiss him so you muster up the courage to do it.

You stand on your tiptoe and press a kiss on his lips, putting your hand on his shoulder for support and Gaspard returns the kiss with so much gentleness with his hand cupping your jaw.

In the middle of it, you come to a realization that you kiss him for so many reasons but not because you like him. You slowly pull away from the kiss and quickly put on a smile for him.

"Goodnight, Gaspard," you mutter.

He allows himself to place a gentle caress on your cheek and smiles back at you as he says back, "Goodnight!"

The walk back to the apartment feels like a punishment. At least, it's late enough that you're sure Kim is already asleep by now so you quietly unlock the door, pushing it open without making any noise, and walk through the living room until you get to the safety of your room.

You kick your shoes off, throw your purse onto the bed, and take off your jacket, just standing there in your dress facing the huge mirror with your reflection staring back at you.

"Do you need help with that?" Minho asks through the cracks of your door.

You hate it that he's still here and you're happy to see him, you're not answering but he comes to your aid anyway. He stands right behind you and slowly unzips your dress for you.

It must be intentional the way his knuckles graze your skin as he pulls the zipper down your back.

The memories from that night come back to you and unlock all the feelings that you try to keep at the bottom of your heart.

Minho then places his hand on your shoulder and looks at you through the mirror, "Do you need help with anything else?" He asks with a voice so low it's almost like a whisper.

You turn your head to the side and meet his gaze, "No."

All sorts of thoughts come rushing through your head but it's the same contradicting questions: Take the chance or pass? Right or wrong? Continue or stop? Now or never?

Those questions going around your head and won't stop bothering you until you make up your mind.

You turn around to face him and notice how close he's standing in front of you, so close that you can feel the heat his body is emitting.

"But I'll help myself," you say and then kiss him.

Well, you guess people can tell which one is the lie now.

-

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[rationaliity]

dr ratio vs. the genius society | an analysis

this'll also be a comparison between ruan mei and dr. ratio so warning for that one too, just in case.

i saw this post by @chronical-lover

and firstly, i just want to say thank you, especially about mentioning how aeons don't care about humans because youre so right. i wanna expand a little bit on the comparison between his character and the genius' that we've met this far.

ratio ultimately failed to be recognized not because he wasn't smart enough, but because he was too human. he's human first, scientist second. he'll always be human first, he doesn't have it in him to act without emotions no matter how much he wants logic to dictate his every move. his entire character is that he believes every one has a human right to be alive, to learn and to grow. he's there to guide them, not necessarily in the nicest way, but still.

i think contrasting him with ruan mei in the story quest was a perfect idea. when you meet ruan mei, she's kind. she makes the trailblazer feel comfortable, even for just a little bit. she offers companionship, tea, and a conversation. but she does not care about the trailblazer or her creations, something painfully obvious in her actions. when the trailblazer was facing up against ruan mei's failed attempt to make a replica of the emanator of propagation, ruan mei was no where to be found. but you know who was, just in case he had to step in ? veritas ratio. even though both knew that the replica wasn't likely to hurt the trailblazer, ratio was there.

" since you're here, i won't intercede. but should you fail, i will be forced to prevent some avoidable misfortunes "

( i hate this man so much )

but he was there. he witnessed the fight, and once the threat was over, it was time to get going ( his words, not mine ). he was there to witness you fight, and should he had needed to, he would've stepped in to prevent us from any actual danger. however, when we approach ruan mei after the fight, and we look reasonably upset from her, we don't get an actual apology. she says she regrets her actions, but her words aren't actually about putting us in danger. she was upset that her experiment fell short, that she had made another predictable outcome.

" you look.. upset, correct ? i regret my actions. there's no defending what i've done. time and again, my experiments have fallen short, and they've always yielded predictable results. i made a clone but it.. doesn't hold a candle to the emanator. "

she did say that she would be there if the danger proved to be too great, but she was not. veritas, however, was. both of them said that they would step in if needed, but only one of them was actually in a position to do so. only one of them took preventative measures to make sure that you were safe from harm. and that is not the genius ruan mei, no matter what her words say.

ruan mei has a flowery way of speaking. not to say that she necessarily minces her words, she's upfront about a lot of things. but she lures the trailblazer into a false sense of security. she's introspective, and questions her own actions a lot. but she's never apologetic about the way that her actions put other people in danger, just that they don't yield the results she wants.

ratio, however, is curt. we meet him originally as a brooding, mysterious figure. he's mean, he doesn't use a lot of words to get his point across. he says what he means, and he's a fan of effective communication. he doesn't have to worry about himself, he knows who he is and how is actions affect himself and the people around him, and that leads to people assuming that he's egotistical ( which he might be , a little bit. as a treat ) but the reality is that ratio cares more about the people around him that he'll ever let on.

and that's where he fails. that's the fundamental difference between him and those within the genius society. ruan mei, herta, screwllum, and the other geniuses do not care about anything other than results. and yet ratio is kind. he's inherently kind, his actions are all for other people. he's saved a dozen worlds with his inventions. he's a scholar within the intelligentsia guild, and a doctor saving his patient's lives every single day. he wants to guide people from the shadows towards the right answer, he wants to make them use their brains and think.

he does not act without considering other people. he can't be a genius first, and a human second. and that's where he fails to gain nous' recognition. it's not that he's not not intelligent enough to be a genius, it's that even in his pursuit of knowledge, he has not forgone his humanity.

and perhaps, in nous' eyes, that's the difference between the mediocre and the genius. to erase every part of you, your emotions, your empathy, your humanity, in the pursuit of knowledge is what separates a genius from the masses. not having those barriers allows you to really dig deep into subjects that would otherwise be considered taboo or dangerous, because you don't care about how the outcome affects people as long as you can study it. as long as you can get answers out of what you're studying, it doesn't really matter what the test subjects are feeling.

ratio is too human, too caring, to ever be considered a genius in nous' eyes.

[danny-phantom-x-reader]

What if, instead of danny getting hit by Ember's guitar it's the reader who becomes obsessed with danny

He would literally love that- I hope you like this:(

Danny's Version: Love Obsession

Everything happened so fast. One minute you were trying to help Danny catch Ember and the next thing you know a blue light hit you and you went unconscious. You could hear Danny's voice, but you couldn't wake up.

Danny quickly rushed to your side, creating a distraction for Ember to get away. He could hear her mocking laugher echo across the room, but he paid her no mind. "Y/n?" He pushed some of the hair out of your face, before stroking your cheek. "Y/n, wake up. Please." He begged, tears slowly starting to build.

The tears stopped when seeing you slowly open your eyes. He quickly hugs you, his arms tightly wrapping around you.

"Oh, Y/n I was so scared." He looks at you, finally getting a good look at you, only for confusion to overtake his face when seeing your lovesick face. "Y/n, are you okay?"

"You're so cute when you're confused, Danny," You slur inbetween giggles.

Your words cause Danny's face to erupt in a dark red. His eyes quickly scan the stadium, hoping to find Tucker or Sam to maybe figure out what was wrong with you but neither friend was in sight.

You pull his chin towards you, forcing him to look at you. "I could look at you all day... You're just so beautiful."

Don't get him wrong, Danny had always liked you, admittedly to much, but still. He knew that your words were being influenced by Ember's guitar and it would just be false hope for him to get sucked into the validation, no matter how nice it was to hear.

"That's great, because I think you're really pretty."

"Yeah?" You blush, getting up on your elbows, creating a near nonexistence distance between you and Danny. Your noses were nearly touching. "So... You love me too?"

"Excuse me?" He says with wide eyes, not knowing how else to respond. Thankfully you just giggle and fall limp into his arms.

---

Danny had tried getting you to his car, but you had attached yourself to his hip. You were like a koala with how you clung to his arm. Your pupils were dilated and never left Danny's figure. You didn't want to look away and him disappear.

"Danny?"

He looked at you, making your face turn a light pink. "Yeah?"

"Have I ever told you that I love you?" You tilt your head, a goofy smile on your face.

"Uh- No, I guess not."

"Well, I do..."

"I know."

---

Danny was thankful for his extra strength and all that ghost hunting, because walking with you was a breeze- Or at least easier than he thought it would be. Danny was thankful when he finally got you into the car. Though, now you were staring at him and it was making him nervous. He didn't necessarily mind your attention, but it was giving him anxiety.

"Hey Y/n?"

"Yeah?" You sigh happily, leaning your chin on your hand.

He looks over at you, sheepishly smiling. "I like you, but do you think you can back up and look at you. I can't focus knowing that you're watching me."

You looked at him confused, "What? Why?"

"Well, with someone as beautiful as you, how can I possible put my attention on anything else when you're giving me yours."

"But you're so handsome and I like looking at you."

"Well, if you really like-"

"Love. I love you." You interrupted, offended that he would say 'like' when your feelings were much stronger.

"Right... Love." Danny knew it wasn't real, but was it really bad to enjoy this? To enjoy your love and affection? No- It couldn't be. This was a reward for all the people he's saved and the bad things that have happened to him. He was finally getting his good karma. "If you love me, you'll stop staring at me, as much as I love it, just until we get to your house.

You sigh, but ultimately listen to him and look out the window, giving Danny some privacy, but now his eyes were being drawn to you, much to his embarrassment. He knew you'd never liked a guy like him- Not without some love potion or spell, but was it bad for him to wish it was real? Your love was something he's always wanted and maybe he should take advantage of it...

---

"Alright Y/n," He sighs as he lays you down on your bed. "I'm going to help you."

"Help? What do you mean?"

He grabs your shoulders, looking directly into your eyes. "You are under Ember's spell. This," He gestures between you both. "isn't real."

"It's real to me," You say on the verge of tears and Danny is quick to backtrack.

"Of course it's real. But... It's not authentic?" He says it like a question, which just confuses you.

"So... Something's wrong with me?"

"What?" His face turns a dark red and he quickly shakes his head. "No, no. Of course not. Nothing could ever be wrong with you. You're perfect. The perfect girl."

"Really?"

"Of course." He smiles, but is distracted when hearing his phone ring. "It's Sam."

"Sam?" You grab his hand, causing him to look at you. You pull him onto the bed and you get on top of him, practically straddling him. He tries to sit up, but you push him up. "Why is Sam calling you? What you like her better or something?"

"What? No, no. I need her and Tucker to help you-"

"You keep saying that. Helping me. I don't need help."

"Yes you do, whether you realize it or not," He then pushes you to the side of the bed so he can get up and grab his phone.

"Why call anyone? Why can't we just keep living like this?"

"Oh, Y/n. You would be pissed if I did anything without you realizing it."

"Why can't you just accept that I love you?"

"Because it's not real... I just wish you'd stop saying it, cause I hate hearing it... You don't mean it." Danny frowns, dialing the phone back and you don't respond back.

---

"Okay, Y/n, you've got to snap out of it."

"Snap out of what?"

Tucker frowns at his best friend, before gesturing around your room that was covered in pictures of Y/n.

"What? Most guys would kill for a girl to like looking at him."

"Y/n it's creepy."

"Is it? If I had pictures of you, would that be creepy?"

He thinks about it for a second before making a face of 'Well- Maybe you've got a point.'

"Besides, what's creepy about being in love?"

Tucker looks back at Danny, "Do you really want her to stop being like this? I mean..." He puts his hands up, "She's obsessed with you. That's every man's dream."

"It's not real. If she meant it, it'd be different." Danny gets up from his seat and shakes your shoulders, "Snap out of it!"

"Danny, stop shaking her!" Tucker pulls Danny off. "Maybe, if we destroy Ember's guitar, Y/n will go back to normal."

"Ember? Who's Ember?"

Tucker pulls out a poster from his backpack, "This is Ember. The girl who made you like this." He points to a time and date at the bottom of the poster. "And she has a show tonight."

---

Danny glares at the blue-haired lady, not paying much attention to the fans around him. They were all being controlled by her music, but he cared more about the fact that she had taken control over Y/n. He loved Y/n, but he wanted her love for him to be authentic, not fake.

"Where's Danny?"

Tucker looks over at you wide eyed. If you saw Danny, you would cling to him and ruin the whole plan. Tucker puts his hand on your biceps, "Uh, I think I saw him go this way," And then he leads you off.

Danny looks at some of the equipment before getting the bright idea to climb them to get a better chance at getting Ember. When he reaches the top, he looks over the crowd, surprised to see you and Tucker so close.

As if you could sense his eyes, you look up to see Danny, before calling to him. Though, Tucker is quick to hush you up, so Ember doesn't hear. But it was too late, because Ember looked up and smirked when seeing Danny.

Danny is quick to dodge her attack and begins to fight her. Neither side was winning and you couldn't help but feel guilty that you weren't helping. You grabbed Tucker's bag and pulled out a ghost weapon, a crossbow, before aiming it and hitting Ember's arm. It caused Ember to yell and Danny to get a shot at her, but she was still too strong for it to hurt her.

Thankfully, Sam was the only one who wasn't under any influence and grabbed Tucker and pushed him on the stage and told him to sing. His singing was so bad that it ended up breaking the spell everyone was under.

You looked around confused, like everyone else, before you saw Danny and Ember fighting. You look around, before finding a ghost capsule and yelling Danny's name, before throwing it to him and he quickly captures her.

---

"What even happened?"

Danny laughs, "Nothing... Really."

"Well, whatever I did, it must have been bad. I feel like I did something bad-"

You open your bedroom door, only for your face to turn a bright red when seeing the walls covered with photos of Danny. "What the fu-"

"Yeah... Uh, you did that."

"Why are there photos of you everywhere?"

"It's a long story. Uh, short version? You were under a love spell."

"Great. Well, whatever I did, I hope it doesn't ruin our friendship."

"A ghost could never make me stop caring about you." Danny tells you, causing you to blush.

"That's good to hear, because it seems that I went crazy."

"Yeah, but I kind of liked the attention, especially from you."

You sheepishly smile, before entering your room, "Well, I better get started on removing these photos. Thank you, Danny. Seriously. For putting up with me."

"It was nothing. Truly."

You close your door, before sighing and leaning on your door. You start to take the photos down, some weirding you out, because where did you get the photos?

After hours of doing that, when you get on the final few, you decide to leave the last one up, because it was a good photo and you wouldn't mind looking at Danny...

[mostlysignssomeportents]

How Google’s trial secrecy lets it control the coverage

I'm coming to Minneapolis! Oct 15: Presenting The Internet Con at Moon Palace Books. Oct 16: Keynoting the 26th ACM Conference On Computer-Supported Cooperative Work and Social Computing.

"Corporate crime" is practically an oxymoron in America. While it's true that the single most consequential and profligate theft in America is wage theft, its mechanisms are so obscure and, well, dull that it's easy to sell us on the false impression that the real problem is shoplifting:

https://newrepublic.com/post/175343/wage-theft-versus-shoplifting-crime

Corporate crime is often hidden behind Dana Clare's Shield Of Boringness, cloaked in euphemisms like "risk and compliance" or that old favorite, "white collar crime":

https://pluralistic.net/2021/12/07/solar-panel-for-a-sex-machine/#a-single-proposition

And corporate crime has a kind of performative complexity. The crimes come to us wreathed in specialized jargon and technical terminology that make them hard to discern. Which is wild, because corporate crimes occur on a scale that other crimes – even those committed by organized crime – can't hope to match:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/10/12/no-criminals-no-crimes/#get-out-of-jail-free-card

But anything that can't go on forever eventually stops. After decades of official tolerance (and even encouragement), corporate criminals are finally in the crosshairs of federal enforcers. Take National Labor Relations Board general counsel Jennifer Abruzzo's ruling in Cemex: when a company takes an illegal action to affect the outcome of a union election, the consequence is now automatic recognition of the union:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/06/goons-ginks-and-company-finks/#if-blood-be-the-price-of-your-cursed-wealth

That's a huge deal. Before, a boss could fire union organizers and intimidate workers, scuttle the union election, and then, months or years later, pay a fine and some back-wages…and the union would be smashed.

The scale of corporate crime is directly proportional to the scale of corporations themselves. Big companies aren't (necessarily) led by worse people, but even small sins committed by the very largest companies can affect millions of lives.

That's why antitrust is so key to fighting corporate crime. To make corporate crimes less harmful, we must keep companies from attaining harmful scale. Big companies aren't just too big to fail and too big to jail – they're also too big for peaceful coexistence with a society of laws.

The revival of antitrust enforcement is such a breath of fresh air, but it's also fighting headwinds. For one thing, there's 40 years of bad precedent from the nightmare years of pro-monopoly Reaganomics to overturn:

https://pluralistic.net/ApexPredator

It's not just precedents in the outcomes of trials, either. Trial procedure has also been remade to favor corporations, with judges helping companies stack the deck in their own favor. The biggest factor here is secrecy: blocking recording devices from courts, refusing to livestream the proceedings, allowing accused corporate criminals to clear the courtroom when their executives take the stand, and redacting or suppressing the exhibits:

https://prospect.org/power/2023-09-27-redacted-case-against-amazon/

When a corporation can hide evidence and testimony from the public and the press, it gains broad latitude to dispute critics, including government enforcers, based on evidence that no one is allowed to see, or, in many cases, even describe. Take Project Nessie, the program that the FTC claims Amazon used to compel third-party sellers to hike prices across many categories of goods:

https://www.wsj.com/business/retail/amazon-used-secret-project-nessie-algorithm-to-raise-prices-6c593706

Amazon told the press that the FTC has "grossly mischaracterize[d]" Project Nessie. The DoJ disagrees, but it can't say why, because the Project Nessie files it based its accusations on have been redacted, at Amazon's insistence. Rather than rebutting Amazon's claim, FTC spokesman Douglas Farrar could only say "We once again call on Amazon to move swiftly to remove the redactions and allow the American public to see the full scope of what we allege are their illegal monopolistic practices."

It's quite a devastating gambit: when critics and prosecutors make specific allegations about corporate crimes, the corporation gets to tell journalists, "No, that's wrong, but you're not allowed to see the reason we say it's wrong."

It's a way to work the refs, to get journalists – or their editors – to wreathe bold claims in endless hedging language, or to avoid reporting on the most shocking allegations altogether. This, in turn, keeps corporate trials out of the public eye, which reassures judges that they can defer to further corporate demands for opacity without facing an outcry.

That's a tactic that serves Google well. When the company was dragged into court by the DoJ Antitrust Division, it demanded – and received – a veil of secrecy that is especially ironic given the company's promise "to organize the world's information and make it universally accessible and useful":

https://usvgoogle.org/trial-update-9-22

While this veil has parted somewhat, it is still intact enough to allow the company to work the refs and kill disfavorable reporting from the trial. Last week, Megan Gray – ex-FTC, ex-DuckDuckGo – published an editorial in Wired reporting on her impression of an explosive moment in the Google trial:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/03/not-feeling-lucky/#fundamental-laws-of-economics

According to Gray, Google had run a program to mess with the "semantic matching" on queries, silently appending terms to users' searches that caused them to return more ads – and worse results. This generated more revenue for Google, at the expense of advertisers who got billed to serve ads that didn't even match user queries.

Google forcefully disputed this claim:

https://twitter.com/searchliaison/status/1709726778170786297

They contacted Gray's editors at Wired, but declined to release all the exhibits and testimony that Gray used to form her conclusions about Google's conduct; instead, they provided a subset of the relevant materials, which cast doubt on Gray's accusations.

Wired removed Gray's piece, with an unsigned notice that "WIRED editorial leadership has determined that the story does not meet our editorial standards. It has been removed":

https://www.wired.com/story/google-antitrust-lawsuit-search-results/

But Gray stands by her piece. She admits that she might have gotten some of the fine details wrong, but that these were not material to the overall point of her story, that Google manipulated search queries to serve more ads at the expense of the quality of the results:

https://twitter.com/megangrA/status/1711035354134794529

She says that the piece could and should have been amended to reflect these fine-grained corrections, but that in the absence of a full record of the testimony and exhibits, it was impossible for her to prove to her editors that her piece was substantively correct.

I reviewed the limited evidence that Google permitted to be released and I find her defense compelling. Perhaps you don't. But the only way we can factually resolve this dispute is for Google to release the materials that they claim will exonerate them. And they won't, though this is fully within their power.

I've seen this playbook before. During the early months of the pandemic, a billionaire who owned a notorious cyberwarfare company used UK libel threats to erase this fact from the internet – including my own reporting – on the grounds that the underlying research made small, non-material errors in characterizing a hellishly complex financial Rube Goldberg machine that was, in my opinion, deliberately designed to confuse investigators.

Like the corporate crimes revealed in the Panama Papers and Paradise Papers, the gambit is complicated, but it's not sophisticated:

Make everything as complicated as possible;

Make everything as secret as possible;

Dismiss any accusations by claiming errors in the account of the deliberately complex arrangements, which can't be rectified because the relevant materials are a secret.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/09/working-the-refs/#but-id-have-to-kill-you

My next novel is The Lost Cause, a hopeful novel of the climate emergency. Amazon won't sell the audiobook, so I made my own and I'm pre-selling it on Kickstarter!

Image: Jason Rosenberg (modified) https://www.flickr.com/photos/underpants/12069086054/

CC BY https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/

--

Japanexperterna.se (modified) https://www.flickr.com/photos/japanexperterna/15251188384/

CC BY-SA 2.0: https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0/

[steddieas-shegoes]

i love him on purpose

for @steddielovemonth using red, white, and royal blue for inspiration

rated t | 1385 words | cw: forced coming out | tags: established relationship, secret relationship, royal steve harrington, wayne munson is the president (god i wish)

🔴⚪🔵🔴⚪🔵🔴⚪🔵🔴⚪🔵🔴⚪🔵

The news broke in the middle of the night, long after Eddie had fallen asleep, and just before Steve’s alarm woke him up.

PRINCE STEVEN CAUGHT HOOKING UP WITH FIRST SON EDDIE, ROYAL FAMILY INSISTS ON SECRECY

Every headline is some variation of Steve and Eddie being caught, but there’s no photos. Most articles point to the royal family not wanting to allow it, but they didn’t even know about it.

Steve’s been so careful, much more careful than Eddie. Eddie’s told his best friends and Wayne, who deserves to know when his nephew turned son is getting into things. Especially when the thing he’s getting into is the Prince of England.

Steve doesn’t really have many friends. He has Robin, who is more like a sister to him, and an entire advisory team, publicists, security…

He won’t answer his phone, which means all of those people have probably informed him he is to have no contact with the outside world until they figure out what to do. Eddie doesn’t know what to do.

They talked about hypotheticals, as any young adults in the public eye are wont to do. How they’d handle the press when they come out. How they would handle Steve’s family when they come out.

All under the assumption that they would have control over their coming out.

How naive.

“Ed. I have to give some kind of message here,” Wayne says softly, gently like he knows that Eddie is gonna beg him not to say anything until he hears from Steve. “Silence ain’t gonna win us any favors.”

“I promised he wouldn’t have to do this alone,” Eddie says. “If we make a statement now, I’m just throwing him to the wolves.”

“Not necessarily. Plenty of options with what to say. As long as we acknowledge we’ve seen it, they don’t have to have any other information,” Wayne says. “I’ll follow your lead, kid.”

“I don’t know what the right thing is.”

Wayne pulls him into a hug. This isn’t the first time they’ve had a PR nightmare on their hands, and probably won’t be the last. Wayne’s always been good at handling things just fine.

But this is something Eddie needs to handle. He accepts the comforting hug, then he decides to be brave.

****

“Forcing anyone to come out is disgusting, and the media has done it time and time again. In this case, they took something that should have been up to me, and up to Prince Steve, and made it world news based on a false report of someone seeing us together at an event. Whether we are together romantically or not isn’t up for speculation. We are what we are. We choose how to define that to ourselves, to our loved ones, and maybe someday, to everyone.” Eddie takes a deep breath and looks into the many cameras facing him, trying his best to ignore the reporters anxiously waiting to be able to ask questions. He’s not letting them, but they don’t know that yet. “Respect goes both ways. Pops has always taught me that respect is earned, not freely given. No one in this press room has earned my respect. Until you do, the only news story you can break about me is that I’m disappointed in the way the media has handled this news story. Thanks for your time.”

Eddie leaves the room.

Wayne is waiting for him in his office.

“Proud of ya, son.”

“Thanks.”

“Your boy will be here in four hours.”

Eddie’s jaw drops. “He called?”

“He did more than call. He caused a scene with every secretary in the building. He insisted he needed to speak to me.”

“He could’ve called me,” Eddie is pacing.

“You left your phone in here earlier, remember? He was desperate.”

“Is he okay? Have they made a statement yet?”

“They haven’t. They wanted to see what we’d do first.” Wayne holds Eddie’s phone out to him. “But I think he could stand to hear from ya.”

Eddie steps in to take the phone from him, but Wayne clasps his hand between his, holding tight.

“I can’t protect you from the media forever, but I’ll always stick up for you and your happiness. You know that?”

“Of course I do,” Eddie answers.

“That goes for your Prince, too,” Wayne smirks. “His family’s on thin ice, though.”

****

Eddie talks to Steve on the phone for a few minutes, but Steve’s not alone, and Eddie’s trying not to hide away entirely from everyone who cares about him. It’s a short conversation, but it’s enough to get them through until Steve arrives.

He sounds like he’s being stoic.

Eddie knows he’s struggling.

It takes nearly two hours of security for Steve to actually get to Eddie’s suite.

“Baby,” Eddie says as he pulls Steve into his chest, feeling whole for the first time since he woke up. “It’s okay. It’s all gonna be okay.”

“They’re making a statement any minute now,” Steve says miserably.

“I’m guessing it’s not what you wanted.” Steve shakes his head in response. “That’s okay. We can work with whatever we need to.”

“They wouldn’t let me do it,” Steve explains. “I wanted to do something like what you did. They said I was too emotional.”

“I think you’re just emotional enough. God forbid you show signs of being a human.”

Steve laughs. Eddie smiles.

“Have you eaten? Do you wanna get cleaned up? I know you hate how airplanes make you feel,” Eddie offers.

Steve tightens his grip around Eddie. That’s answer enough.

****

“We sincerely hope the media will understand that making accusations of this nature about a member of the royal family will not go unpunished. Whether it is true or not, we will be handling this discussion internally. We have contacted the President’s office to have a discussion with their team. Eddie’s statement today was not discussed with us beforehand, nor did it go through any of our approval, and should not be seen as our official statement.”

“Does your grandfather always look like someone pissed directly in his eye?” Eddie asks Steve as they watch the official statement from his room.

“It depends on which of us has displeased him,” Steve laughs. “If it’s my mother, his lip curls up over his teeth.”

Eddie pulls Steve into his side on the couch, turning off the television so they can have some peace. They sit in the silence for a couple of minutes, something neither of them get to do very often.

“Wayne offered us the house in Indiana for a bit. Said it might be nice for us to just be away from the chaos,” Eddie runs his fingers up and down Steve’s arm, smiling to himself when Steve shivers against him. “At least for a few days. Let the media move on and give time for your family to get the sticks surgically removed from their asses.”

“That sounds nice,” Steve agrees, leaning his head back to kiss Eddie’s lips. “I wanna do something first, though.”

Steve pulls away so he can get his phone from the coffee table. It’s been on silent and face down since he arrived. He types for a minute, and Eddie waits.

Steve sets his phone down and turns back to Eddie with a grin.

“Okay, ready to go.”

Eddie’s phone goes off in his pocket. He pulls it out and looks down at where he’s been tagged on Instagram in Steve’s post.

It’s a picture from the trip they took with Wayne to Indiana last month, the two of them by a fire with melted marshmallow all over their lips. They’re both happy.

The caption makes tears pool in Eddie’s eyes and a semi-hysterical laugh burst from his throat.

Doesn’t matter who pissed in his eye, as long as I’ve got you. Let’s go off the grid, baby

“You’re gonna be in so much fuckin’ trouble, baby,” Eddie laughs with disbelief.

“I don’t care. They know better than to cause a bigger scene.” Steve kisses the corner of his mouth. “Can we go to that diner when we get there? The one with the burger that have cheese inside the meat?”

“How American of you,” Eddie teases. “I’ll make sure Wayne calls Benny ahead of time so he knows we’re on our way.”

[peachesvanilla]

Synopsis: Seungchoel just wants to see his crush once more, or maybe dare to initiate a conversation. Genre: fluff

Seungcheol enters the bookstore, the smell of books and the musty cupboards surrounds him. His eyes rove around the store hoping to see her again. He pulls the scarf from his neck, folding it around his arm as he saunters into the long rows of bookshelves. 

The snow is heavy outside, driving to his hometown has been no short of adventure especially when the sun was already setting down. The roads were slippery and busy due to being a new year’s eve, he had to drive slowly. He did think of backing off but he couldn’t easily get a long holiday. And the thoughts of her are plaguing him, yearning to look at her once more. If he is lucky, maybe talk with her. 

His fingers slide across the spines of the books, his eyes looking through the gaps of the shelves. If the information given by his friend turns out to be false, he will nail his friend’s head into the wall. 

“Are you looking for anything?” Her soft voice asks from behind. 

Seungcheol’s heart pitter patters in his chest. She is here. He turns around slowly, her flowery scent overwhelming his senses. She is standing a foot away from him, his attention immediately drawn to the fact she is tinier compared to the first time he saw her. 

Her gaze flicks up from his neck to his eyes. She blinks rapidly, her lips parting slightly. Seongcheol runs his hand through his icy cold hair, running a hundred simulations in his mind on what to answer and how the situation will pan out based upon his answers. 

“I’m,” he scratches his eyebrow, “looking for,” his eyes fleeting momentarily to the mystery books next to him. He grimaces, “actually I’m new to books. I would be happy to receive some recommendations.” 

Her entire being beams up at his words. “Of course. Which genre do you prefer to read? Mystery? Thriller?” Her fingers are already in a hurry going over the spines of mystery section books. 

“Uhm,” he hesitates, leaning on the book shelf, “I don’t necessarily enjoy mystery or suspense thriller movies. I’m not sure I’ll enjoy the books.” 

Her fingers freezes, her ears turning red. “I’m so sorry!” She bows her head slightly, “I just assumed everything, not giving you space to talk.” Her tinted cheeks make him smile, popping out his dimple. 

He runs his hand through his hair, ducking down his head to hide the grin. Why is she so cute? Pulling his lips back, he tries to control his smile. “That’s fine.” He waves it off, his eyes jumping from poster to poster hanging on the walls. “I’m the one who is,” he searches for a word that categorises him and also makes him look not so sappy, “slightly different. As I usually prefer to watch romance movies.” 

“Oh.” 

Seungcheol just wants to walk out from the store without looking back and drive far away. Preferably off the earth. Dramatic. “I know,” he looks down at his boots, still avoiding looking at her, “it’s just,” his hands start waving in the air trying to explain his stance on their own, “I don’t..” 

His ears twitch listening to her laugh, one of her hands holding the book shelf and another her stomach. If he can squint he can see tears in her eyes. He pokes his tongue in his cheek, holding the bookshelf inches away from her hand, leaning in, “what kind of service is this? Laughing at a customer?” 

She covers her mouth, blinking her eyes several times. “I’m..” she inhales deeply, catching her breath, “sorry.” Her eyes shining like a sky filled with stars, he swears he saw a twinkle. She leans in a little, her face a few inches away from his, and his eyes greedily takes in every feature of hers. Freckles sprinkled all over her right cheek. The slight curve of her mouth, and the subtle hints of her perfume. 

She whispers, “I love romance too. I’m glad you came in,” she smiles at him, signaling him to follow her. She swivels around disappearing into the next aisle. 

Seungcheol groans into his outstretched arm. Why is she so adorable? If only he can pocket her and carry around. He slides his palm across his face, following her to the next aisle. 

“…men always trash romance.” She looks over her shoulder making sure he is listening. “That’s why I assumed you were looking for suspense thrillers.” 

He nods. “What do you read?” 

He notices the subtle raise of her shoulders and the deep breath. “I read everything, except suspense thrillers.” She looks away sheepishly, her fingers trailing over the books under the romance section. “Memoirs, self help, comfort, and even cookbooks.” 

“Ah.” Seungcheol leans on the books, “when you said you could recommend a suspense thriller..?” He quirks his eyebrow. 

“I don’t read it,” she stands on her tiptoes, pulling out a book off the top shelf. “But I do look into trend, recommendations from trusted sources.” She plucks out another book from the middle, and another from the bottom row. “Here you go.” 

Seungcheol accepts the books from her, flipping it over and scanning through the summaries. He chews on his bottom lip, contemplating over which one to choose. He gives up, jutting his lower lip, “can you decide for me please.” 

Her eyes flicker to his lips, and then to his eyes. “Uhm..” she clutches her hands, “if I have to choose,” she stares at the three books in his hands, “I would go for this one.” She taps on the middle book. “I just couldn’t get over the couple for a few days after completing the book.” 

Seungcheol’s heart skips a beat when she looks in his eyes straight, unwavering. He nods in reply, “then it’s decided.” 

She beams at him, guiding him to the counter. He looks at the empty store while she punches on the machine. “The store is empty.” He remarks. 

“Ah,” she smiles, “the closing hour was at 6:00 pm due to the new year.” 

He checks the time on his phone, 7:03 pm. “Fuck,” he swears under his breath, “I’m so sorry! The door was open and I thought..”

“No.. no..” she cuts in, “it’s my fault I should have hung the board but no one visited since afternoon and I didn’t think anyone would. Especially when the event starts at 7:00 pm.” 

 “Event?” He tilts his head to the side, lost in thought. He doesn’t remember his friend mentioning any event. 

“New year countdown.” She frowns at him, “are you not from here?” 

“I’m just visiting. This is my hometown but I live in Seoul.” 

“Ah.” She nods in understanding. “That’s what I thought. The town heads have been advertising like crazy for the past few days that it’s hard to miss the posters and flyers around the town.” She dips her head, checking the computer, “it’s 17.7.” 

Seungcheol taps the card, “are you planning on attending this event?” 

She curls her hair behind her ear, printing his bill. “I don’t have anything to do except roll up in my comforter and watch Netflix. So why not just go and watch the firecrackers.” She shrugs. 

He nods, tapping his fingers on the wooden counter. The guilt gnaws at his chest, he is the reason she stayed back and she isn’t even annoyed at him. 

“Thank you.” She hands him the cover, turning off her system. “Happy new year!”

He picks up the cover, and just braves up, “as an apology can I take you to the event? I can give you the ride and,” he notices the crease between her eyebrows, “I will give you all my details and you can send it to your family just as a precaution. I don’t bite or kill anyone.” 

“That’s too much,” she smiles tentatively, “trust me I’m really fine. I need to close the store and walk a mile.” 

“A mile?!” 

“Or two.” She adds hesitantly. 

“It's freezing! Please,” he leans in, “consider this as my gratitude for not judging and suggesting a romance book.” He still sees the hesitation in her, his pout comes out involuntarily, “please.” 

Her eyes flick to his lips, she parts her lips and closes it back a few times. “I.. am not..” she stops her words, noticing he is halfway to sulking. “Alright.” She sighs, pressing her nose in distress. 

He grins widely, his phone out in seconds and already sharing his information to her. She shakes her head in disbelief, noting it down on her phone. After turning off the lights, and cross checking the doors they leave for the event under her direction. 

“What are your plans for tonight?” She asks as they slowly approach the parking garage. 

He shrugs. “Probably go home and read the book?” Driving his car into the parking slot after roaming around the lot for an empty space. He didn’t expect this event to be this crowded. 

“Oh.” She replies. “If.. you don’t mind..,” Seungcheol looks at her, “you can join me. We can watch the fireworks and the food from a few stalls will blow your mind.” 

He should take up on this offer. If not now then when will he be able to get this opportunity again? Hesitation creeps up in his mind, the event probably has hundreds of people and he feels suffocated in large groups. 

She is watching him with hopeful puppy eyes. Her hands intertwined and resting on her lap. God, how can he say no to her? Maybe… maybe he can handle the crowd. One can try. 

“I.. can..,” he runs his hand through his hair ruffling it. Her shoulders perk up again. “Yeah, I definitely can.” He turns off the engine, unbuckling his seatbelt. She follows the pursuit and the two are strolling towards the entrance of the event. 

“What’s your name?” She scratches her cheek, squeamishly. “It’s just that I even have your number and address but not your name.” 

Seungcheol laughs. “Seungcheol.” He moves closer to her noticing people crowding in. There isn’t much space for people to walk freely unless you crash into someone’s back or arms. He looks over his shoulder noticing kids walking closer to them. 

He snaps his head to her, listening to his name in her melodic calm tone. “Seung,” she pauses, “Cheol. Seungcheol.” His heart skips a beat, he leans in hoping to catch her say his name once more. “Seungcheol.” Her whispers, drives him insane. 

She faces him, muttering her name in his ear as the crowd gets louder and rowdier. His arm possessively hover on her shoulder, not touching. His lips curl up watching her bounce on her feet before rushing to a food stall. He follows her close behind, her back crashing into his front whenever she abruptly stops as people cut in her way.  

As they near the stall, she holds her hand behind her, Seungcheol grabs hesitantly as she drags him (or tries to as he lets her) to the line. She turns around her face no short of the bright sun. “You have to try this!” She is on her tiptoes again, shouting over the loud music playing on the stage nearby. “You’ll love it. The best you can find in the whole country.” 

He leans in to catch her words. She grabs onto his shoulder, “this is the reason I want to come in.” 

Seungcheol really wants to listen to her words but the hand on his shoulder, her grip on him malfunctions his brain’s wiring. He keeps nodding as her words go over his head and her hand slides down his jacket. 

The line moves forward, she slips her hand off him excited that they are only two customers away. There’s that hop again. Seungcheol turns away his hand sliding down his face, his insides screaming. He can’t do this anymore. She is fucking cute. 

She quickly orders the food as soon as she greets the owner. He is surprised that the owner recognises her and also gives extra food. He searches for an empty spot to sit but couldn’t. 

She is also looking around, shuffling the plastic plate from one hand to another. He swiftly grabs the plate from her, leading her to the less crowded corner. She leans on the wall, her entire attention on the food in his hands. Cheekiness creeps inside him as he moves the plate to left watching her face turn to left and he moves it to the right chuckling at her parted lips and hungry stare. 

She shoves his chest, he doesn’t even budge an inch. She grabs a fork, picking up a small piece blowing it on it. Her eyes flit to his watching one’s, she extends the fork to him. He crouches down accepting the food. He hums in agreement, the flavours burst out on his tongue. 

She quickly eats the hot food, watching the crowd wandering around. She talks about the specialities the event is offering and asks if he is interested in any. They continue to chat and eat as the time passes by quickly. 

Dumping the empty plates in the dustbin Seungcheol jogs back to her. “So should we try some games?”

They wait in line for a shooting game, chatting about anything and everything. “I don’t know if I mentioned this already but I’m planning to visit Seoul soon.” She informs him. 

“Oh.” He perks up at her words. “That’s nice. Maybe I can take you to my favourite food stalls.” 

She scrunches her nose, “I don’t know if I’ll have time. I'm the maid of honour for my friend’s wedding. I am not sure if she allows me out of her sight during the bridal party.” 

“Ah,” he nods, moving up the line for their turn. He picks up a gun, looking over the targets. “That’s disappointing. Was hoping to meet you again.” He mutters more to himself. 

She nods. “I know right.” She shoots the first balloon, and next another blue one. 

“Woah.” He exclaims, his lips forming an ‘o’. “You are good at this.” 

She giggles, popping an entire row of balloons. The owner gives them a stinky eye, visibly stressed. Seungcheol hears kids screaming in delight at her skills. And she misses all of her shots. He quirks his eyebrow at her. She just shrugs, stepping aside for him to shoot his shot.

He knows he is good at this game and single handedly can pop all the balloons. He misses his shots, making a dramatic play on how pissed he is to miss an easy shot. She gives him a side eye, shaking her head with a smile. He grins lopsidedly, setting his gun down. He mimics her shrug and they leave accepting a teddy bear as a prize. 

“So you are horrible at games.” She chimes, hugging the teddy bear. 

He is offended, “there were kids. I need to let them have their fun.” He checks the time, in 30 minutes the clock will strike midnight. 

“Mmhmm.” She hums, nuzzling her cheek on the plushie gazing at him. “I appreciate it.” 

Here his heart goes again. He just wants to scream into the void. He folds his arms across his chest or else he isn’t sure what they will do on their own. He exhales through his mouth stabilising his mind and heart. “We only have 20 minutes until the new year.” 

“Follow me. I know a place.”

“You know this is an ideal murderer's words, right?” He tilts his head, following her. 

She huffs. “Even if I wanna murder you, you can take me out with just one swing of your arm.” She points at his biceps. He swears he saw her eyes scan his entire body. 

He rolls his eyes. “Then you wouldn’t be doing anything funny to me.” 

She shoves him, he just nudges her in return. She stumbles sideways, her mouth hanging open. “See!” 

He laughs, grabbing her wrist pulling her back to his side. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” 

“Seungcheol.” She shakes her head in mock disappointment. “Is this how you treat girls?” 

“Should I princess carry you instead?” 

His smile widens seeing her blush deepen on her cheeks. “Let’s just go.” 

They settle on a rock in a secluded area. Seungcheol moves in closer, pressing his body to her, seeing her shiver in the cold. 

“What are your resolutions for next year?” He asks. 

“Get a boyfriend.” She slips and probably realises a little late. She steals a glance at him and goes back to staring at the sky. “uhm, you know it gets pretty lonely in the bookstore.” Her hands start waving around in the air explaining herself. “And I don’t mean I’m not happy by myself, I am. It’s just that.” She groans. 

“My resolution is also to get a girlfriend.” Seungcheol offers. “I know what you are saying.” 

Silence ensues. No one squeaks a letter. What did he do? Did he really imply wanting her to be his girlfriend? Wait a minute, did she imply wanting him to be her boyfriend? God, it’s driving him nuts. 

The firecrackers startle them both. They face each other at the same time. 

“Happy new year!” He wishes her.

She extends her arm unsurely. He mirrors her, pulling her in a hug. She mumbles in his ear, “happy new year, Seungcheol.” 

His heart just dives in, crashing. He doesn’t want this to end. He can’t even crank up any ideas to meet her again. He holds her little tighter. She chuckles, resting her chin on his broad shoulder.

If only he can make her his girlfriend.  

[antivan-sprig]

🔥 NSFW Asks 🔥

A lot of these are named after innuendoes from classic lit + historical phrases!

I split these into very specific categories. Please indicate in the tags you don’t want to be asked certain questions!

I tried to include some non-sexual nsfw questions too, just in case any Rooks out there aren’t interested in sex or just don’t want to share. So this includes NSFW in many different forms. Some are a bit silly!

Remember to use CW if necessary!

Sex #1 (mostly fun happy stuff)

Amorous congress: What was Rook’s best sexual relationship/encounter? (Why was it the best/did it end?)

Planting the parsnips: Where do Rook and their VG partner have their first time?

A bit of crumpet: In general, how open is Rook about their sexuality? Are they boastful about their escapades or secretive?

Give one's arse a salad: Give a list of npcs, two are characters they haven’t slept with, one is a character they have. (Scale the numbers accordingly if you want to share more than one)

Make the beast with two backs: Give a list of kinks, two are false and one is genuine. (Scale the numbers accordingly if you want to share more than one)

Have your corn ground: What type of kinks would Rook be most excited for their partner to have? As in, what kinks would they happily fulfill even if they don’t necessarily share them?

Making faces: Does Spite/any spirit ever comment on anything regarding your Rook’s experiences?

Ex: when Illario passes Spite and Lisel, Spite notes that Illario thinks Lisel is a bad kisser 😅

Sex #2 (potentially negative experiences, embarrassment, shame etc)

Grope for trout in a peculiar river: How open to casual sex is Rook?

Shaking of the sheets: Are they an emotional lay, physical lay, or somewhere in between? (A.K.A how likely are they to cry before/during/after?)

Horizontal refreshment: What was Rook’s most mediocre encounter? (Them or their partner)

Oh good lord: Who gave Rook the talk?

Riding St George: What’s the most embarrassing thing to ever happen to Rook during the act?

Do the deed of darkness: Has Rook ever participated in any potentially dangerous kinks/acts?

Give a girl a green gown: Has Rook ever been caught in a compromising position?

Shoot twixt wind and water: Has Rook ever witnessed something they weren’t supposed to?

Nudity

Bang: If Rook was going to post to any nsfw subreddit, what one would get them the most upvotes? (Doesn’t need to be a strictly physical attribute, can be a role or act)

Boink: What nsfw tag is your Rook following?

Score: Would Rook go to a nude beach or any location where clothing is optional?

Share: In general, how much skin do they show? Does this change with the occasion?

Dare: Skinny dipping, yes or no? Skinny dipping on a first date, yes or no?

Unwrapping: Pro or anti lingerie?

Alcohol + Drug use

Boozy: Does Rook drink? If yes, tell us the most interesting thing that’s happened to them while drunk. (Could be funny, sad, anything!)

Doozy: Does/has Rook used any drugs? How do they feel about that?

Asleep by 9: In general how do they feel about alcohol and drug use? What makes them think this way?

Violence

Ouchie: How does Rook feel about gore? Have they experienced much?

Booboo alert: When was the first time they experienced gore?

Workplace safety

Write Up: What’s the stupidest thing Rook has done on the job that their faction mentor(s) knows about?

Don’t tell mom: What’s the stupidest thing Rook has ever done while on the job that their faction mentor DOESN’T know about?

Truancy: Did/does Rook ever play hooky/goof off while on the job?

Faction: Do you have any faction specific Headcanons for NSFW things? (Ex: polyamory is the norm in the Crows) (LOF don’t fuck on sundays) You can get as silly or as serious as you want.

[charleslee-valentine]

Trudy refills Vincent’s cereal. He’s 2-3 years old and blind in one eye. He doesn’t need more cereal, he just needs his bowl rotated so he can see the cereal that was left over on his blind side. Not that we necessarily know how Vincent communicates without speech, but she hardly gives him time to answer her question about more before she’s refilling the bowl anyways. This is her approach to parenting her boys in general.

There’s no interest in fixing their actual issues. Rather than help Vincent to see what he already has in front of him, she’d rather add more, inadvertently also adding more onto the side he can’t see. At some point, this would just add to the issue. Overcompensation into overwhelm. Bo is brought in for breakfast kicking and screaming and it’s sort of evident why Trudy puts all her love into Vincent to the point of it being suffocating and unhelpful. Sure it could be a simple case of favoritism, but with the aspect of overcompensation specifically, it seems that she wants to balance her guilt over failing to parent one of her sons by pouring more effort than necessary into Vincent. Rather than giving the extra attention to Bo, it’s refilling a non-empty bowl of cereal.

I don’t think that necessarily mean she loves Vincent more. She finds him easier to parent. Fill the bowl whether or not he needs it because that’s easier than unpacking where Bo’s massive emotional outbursts are coming from. It seems more like love-bombing than genuine kindness. He’s “being such a good boy today,” but the implied part is an unsaid comparison to Bo. As twins, and conjoined twins at that, they’re not independent of each other. Vincent’s behavior exists only to contrast Bo’s, from her perspective. “Fix” his needs, and she can fix them both. Hence, preferring just to duct tape Bo to a chair than help him any.

Then Vincent grows up to become her protege, starting in his childhood but lasting until even after Trudy’s death. Over thirty years have passed since they were toddlers in those high chairs, but Bo gives a hint about why Vince got that ‘special privilege’ to not be as physically abused. “She always said that your talent would make up for what God took away from you.” Only, God didn’t take anything. Victor Sinclair doing illegal, unqualified surgery on his babies is why Vincent lost half of his face. Trudy only uses God’s name and religion as a shield for her own guilt about how her boys turned out. But it’s more likely she included Vincent in the wax business because she again, was dumping affection onto him over and over as her strategy.

Otherwise there isn’t as much favoritism between the boys. In their childhood photos, they both play piano, both play pool and baseball, both get to sit at the table with their birthday cake (without highchairs or bindings) and they play on the floor together. It's not entirely divisive between them, though it’s still obvious from which brother she’s slapping across his face and which brother she’s love-bombing which she’d prefer to deal with. Just not which she actually cares for more. Vincent wasn’t somehow spared from abuse in a house like the Sinclair household.

Interestingly, when Bo tells the story of Trudy and Victor, he mentions that once the Doc died, they were alone. Except, there’s at least one version of a prop newspaper stating that Trudy created a wax memorial for Victor. So this is just a false version of events most likely. Sure it could be that a decision changed, but there’s also the fact that, in the guns and ammo store, there’s a sign that says “Trudy’s Town or Wax.” And Bo tells Vincent, “We almost finished what mama started.” She’s also much older than the Trudy we see in the family photos and articles (even with the amount of cigarettes that woman smoked.) Ambrose is confirmed to have been abandoned for a decade, but to be turned into wax, Trudy would’ve had to die sometime between the abandonment of Ambrose and the present. Else she would’ve been properly buried most likely. The plan to fill Ambrose was hers, it’s just Bo that suggests using real humans (according to his apology to Vincent, he takes credit for the idea anyhow.)

Which makes her boys at least in their mid twenties when she died. In an older version of the script, Bo had killed her and Victor, but knowing it would put them all in foster care, that doesn’t quite make sense unless they were older. So the order of events is, Doc dying, the sugar mill closing, Trudy planning to reimagine Ambrose, and then dying herself.

The reason that’s important is because it’s emblematic of just how much pressure she was putting on both of her boys. And that’s not love. With two mentally ill, abused sons, (maybe three, since Lord only knows how they treated Lester once he came along,) that’s just manipulation. Victor and Trudy aren’t cartoon super villains for being bad to their boys. But when you can’t even just rotate a bowl slightly for your half blind little one, it’s shallow. Trudy has her cigarettes right in the boys faces in the opening and in most of the photos. Smoking was in one study linked to about 1/3rd of conjoined pregnancies, and in a similar case of conjoinment to the boys, one of the twins had lost an eye and had a prosthetic, but with minimal scarring because of the surgery being done in an actual legal hospital. It’s not about God taking anything, or about which is a little monsted and which is a very good boy- it’s about Trudy and Victor both messing up from the very beginning and causing the boys losses, then refusing to take accountability for it. Or, in the symbolic sense, to just do the right thing and turn a damn bowl of cheerios towards your blind kid.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

can you do a post about the forms of manipulation? or if you already have, traits people have when trying to manipulate you. thank you!!

Writing Notes: Psychological Manipulation

Manipulation - Behavior designed to exploit, control, or otherwise influence others to one’s advantage.

3 Basic Forms of Manipulation

DECEPTION

Includes outright lying to those manipulated (e.g., making false promises to them) and also

Misleading them without actually misrepresenting anything, such as:

by encouraging false assumptions, or

fostering self-deception that is advantageous to the manipulator’s ends, or

getting the manipulated person to “view things differently” or interpret the situation in a light favorable to the manipulator’s purposes.

PRESSURE TO ACQUIESCE

Can involve:

browbeating (i.e., to intimidate or disconcert by a stern manner or arrogant speech; bully),

wearing down the other’s resistance, and

making someone agree to something just to avoid further discomfort or embarrassment.

Threats, when the harm they threaten falls short of being coercive, could be categorized as this kind of manipulation.

Pressure can also take the form of offering inducements, when, they give the manipulated person “the wrong sort of reason” for opting in favor of the manipulator’s proposals.

PLAYING UPON EMOTIONS, EMOTIONAL NEEDS, OR WEAKNESSES OF CHARACTER

Includes eliciting an emotion with the aim of making use of it.

Typical emotions used to manipulate are:

fear,

sympathy,

a sense of gratitude toward the manipulator, and

feelings of guilt if the manipulated person does not consent to what the manipulator wants.

Typical weaknesses of character employed for manipulation are:

vanity and

the need for approval—especially the need for the manipulator’s approval.

Another common character flaw through which people can be manipulated is greed:

which tends to make people exaggerate the value or the importance of some prospective benefit, and

to make them willing to take excessive risks when subject to its allure.

Some manipulation makes use of traits or dispositions common to most people, not even necessarily weaknesses, together with situational factors in which these traits come to look like weaknesses.

Manipulativeness, as a trait, can be seen in the following:

EMOTIONAL ABUSE

Also called psychological abuse.

Nonphysical abuse: A pattern of behavior in which one person deliberately and repeatedly subjects another to nonphysical acts that are detrimental to behavioral and affective functioning and overall mental well-being.

Researchers have yet to formulate a universally agreed upon definition of the concept, but they have identified a variety of forms that emotional abuse may take, including:

verbal abuse;

intimidation and terrorization;

humiliation and degradation;

exploitation;

harassment;

rejection and withholding of affection;

isolation; and

excessive control.

MACHIAVELLIANISM

A personality trait marked by a calculating attitude toward human relationships and a belief that ends justify means, however ruthless.

A Machiavellian is one who views other people more or less as objects to be manipulated in pursuit of their goals, if necessary through deliberate deception.

Machiavellians are manipulative: they use, deceive and shortchange others. They always take and even seek the opportunity to benefit from misleading others (Sutton & Keogh 2000).

Manipulation has a multifaceted connection with lying. Machiavellians often lie and they lie convincingly and effectively.

Traits of Machiaveillians: Manipulative, Self-interested, Duplicitous, Cynical, Amoral, Focused on personal gain

Niccolò Machiavelli argued that an effective ruler must be prepared to act in this way.

ANTAGONISM

People who display antagonism behave in ways that put them at odds with other people. They may exhibit any of the following traits:

manipulativeness,

deceitfulness,

grandiosity,

attention seeking,

callousness, and

hostility.

PSYCHOPATHY - A cluster of traits that includes:

lack of empathy,

lack of remorse,

tendency to manipulate other people,

superficial charm,

egocentricity,

deception, and

a grandiosely high sense of self-worth.

HISTRIONIC PERSONALITY DISORDER

Some people with HPD make suicide attempts, often to manipulate others (Bressert, 2016; APA, 2013).

NARCISSISTIC PERSONALITY DISORDER

Once in treatment, clients with NPD may try to manipulate the therapist into supporting their sense of superiority (Skodol & Bender, 2019).

NOTES: On Manipulators

A manipulator's aggression is not obvious.

The tactics manipulators use can make it seem like they're hurting, caring, defending...almost anything, but fighting.

All of us have weaknesses and insecurities that a clever manipulator might exploit.

What our gut tells us a manipulator is like challenges everything we've been taught to believe about human nature.

SOME TACTICS USED BY MANIPULATIVE PEOPLE

Denial

Selective inattention

Rationalization

Diversion

Lying

Covert intimidation

Guilt-tripping

Shaming

Playing the victim role

Vilifying the victim

Playing the servant role

Seduction

Projecting the blame

Minimization

EXAMPLES: Of Manipulative Behaviors

Being highly manipulative in relationships (e.g., being hypochondriacal, being inappropriately seductive, making suicidal threats) to get attention.

Appearing calm and reflective, and then the next minute be highly manipulative (“Do this or else I’ll take you to court! . . .”).

Acting as if they are weak and helpless, or using sexual seduction, or threatening suicide to get attention.

Some examples that challenge the position that manipulation is always wrong:

A negotiator persuades the hostage taker to release the hostages.

Psychological strategies employed in self-defense to thwart an attacker.

Getting a boss to do something that he would not consider doing unless he thought it was his idea.

Sources: 1 2 3 4 5 6 ⚜ More: Notes & References ⚜ 600+ Personality Traits

Hope this helps with your writing! :)