The first letter came wrapped in pink paper, tucked under Ji-hoon's door like an afterthought.
At first, he almost didn't notice it. It was a busy morning — calls to make, encrypted files to send, and Joon-won pacing the apartment like a caged animal.
But something about the envelope made Ji-hoon stop.
It wasn't just the color. It was the handwriting — large, childish loops, inked in glittery purple pen, spelling out his name like they knew him.
He picked it up carefully, turning it over. No return address. No stamp. Someone had been here, close enough to touch the door, close enough to hear him moving inside.
His skin prickled.
"Joon-won," he said quietly.
Joon-won was at his side immediately, eyes narrowing. "What the hell is that?"
Ji-hoon didn't answer. He opened it with a swift tear and unfolded the paper inside.
The letter was short. Sweet, almost.
To my darling Ji-hoon,
You probably don't remember me. But I remember you. I always have. I was there before the lights and the cameras and the screaming fans. Before the suits made you perfect. I loved you before anyone else. And I love you now, even more.
Don't trust the liars around you. They'll betray you. They already have. But me? I'm the only one who's ever been loyal. I'll protect you when the rest of the world turns its back. Just wait for me.
P.S. You looked beautiful in the news today. I saved all the pictures.
The paper smelled faintly of something sickly sweet — perfume, maybe, or cheap body spray — clinging to the words like rot.
Ji-hoon folded it back up calmly.
"Who's So-hee?" he asked, voice perfectly even.
Joon-won's face paled slightly. "You remember that girl from the last tour? The one who kept sending you flowers? Security had to block her at the hotel."
Ji-hoon nodded slowly. Vaguely, he recalled an overzealous fan, someone the team had quietly shuffled aside before she became a headline. He hadn't thought about her since.
Apparently, she hadn't forgotten him.
Joon-won rubbed a hand over his face. "I'll up the security. Cameras on every floor. Motion detectors. I'll call the building manager—"
"No," Ji-hoon said sharply.
Joon-won stared at him. "Are you crazy? This girl could be dangerous."
"I need her to keep thinking she's getting closer," Ji-hoon said quietly. "If she thinks we're pushing her away, she'll get desperate. Desperate people do stupid things. Loud things."
He picked up the letter again, feeling the weight of it.
"We can use that."
Joon-won looked like he wanted to argue, but finally he sighed and muttered, "Fine. But I'm sleeping with a damn baseball bat under my pillow."
Ji-hoon allowed himself the ghost of a smile.
Fair enough.
The second letter arrived two days later.
This time, it was tucked inside a box of pastries left on the hood of Joon-won's car. A tiny, deliberate breach of their carefully guarded space.
The box looked harmless enough — a cute bakery logo, ribbons, a handwritten tag: "For Ji-hoon! You deserve something sweet!"
But inside, nestled between the pastries, was another folded note, this one written in red ink:
You don't have to be alone anymore. I'm here. Always. I see everything they try to hide from you. I hear what they whisper behind closed doors. They don't believe in you like I do.
When the others fall away, I'll still be standing. I'll still be loving you.
P.S. I can't wait to meet you properly. Soon. Very soon.
Ji-hoon set the box down carefully and stepped away.
Joon-won swore violently under his breath, snatching the pastries and dumping them straight into the trash.
"She's escalating," he said grimly. "First the door. Now the car. She's closing in."
Ji-hoon leaned against the wall, feeling the old, familiar coldness settle into his chest. The way it had when he lost his sight. The way it had when his mother died.
He recognized obsession when he heard it.
Recognized hunger dressed up as devotion.
"She's not going to stop," he said.
"No," Joon-won agreed. "She's not."
Ji-hoon turned his face toward the window, where the gray afternoon light pressed against the glass like a hand.
"Good," he said quietly. "Let her come."
The third message wasn't a letter. It was a phone call.
Joon-won answered first, the special line they used only for emergencies, and put it on speaker the moment he heard the voice.
It was soft. Breathy. Familiar in a way that made Ji-hoon's skin crawl.
"Ji-hoon... it's me," So-hee whispered. "I just wanted to hear your voice. I know you're busy. I know you're scared. But you don't have to be scared anymore. I'll take care of everything. I'll protect you."
There was a rustling sound, like fabric brushing against a microphone.
"I saw you today," she said. "You were wearing the black jacket I like. The one that makes you look like a fallen angel. So beautiful. So perfect. You smiled at that reporter, but you didn't mean it, did you? I could tell. Only I know what you're really feeling."
Ji-hoon didn't move. Didn't breathe.
So-hee laughed softly, a broken little giggle.
"They're lying to you, Ji-hoon. They'll all leave you eventually. Just like they left me. But not me. I'm still here. I'm always here."
A click — then silence.
The call ended.
Joon-won looked at him across the room, tense, waiting.
But Ji-hoon only said, "Find out how she got the number."
And, after a long beat, "Trace everything."
At midnight, another message slipped under the door.
This one wasn't a letter.
It was a photograph.
A grainy shot taken from across the street — Ji-hoon sitting inside his apartment, visible through the half-drawn blinds.
He was sitting exactly where he was sitting now.
Ji-hoon picked it up carefully, studying the angle, the distance, the shadows.
She was close.
Close enough to watch.
Close enough to hurt.
He looked up, the photograph crackling slightly between his fingers.
The war with Si-wan was dangerous.
But So-hee was a different kind of danger altogether.
And she was getting braver by the hour.
Ji-hoon didn't sleep that night.
He sat by the window instead, blinds cracked just enough to let a sliver of the outside world bleed in. The city buzzed faintly below him — cars humming, distant voices, the endless mechanical heartbeat of Seoul. But beneath all that noise, there was something sharper. A presence.
Every time he shifted, every time he inhaled, he felt it: eyes on him. Watching. Measuring.
Not the cold calculation of Si-wan's people.
Not the detached surveillance of a private investigator.
No, this was personal.
Obsession had a weight. A smell. A gravity.
It pulled at him now, thick and cloying.
Behind him, Joon-won paced silently, the bat gripped in his hand like a lifeline.
"She's out there," Joon-won said under his breath, like it was a prayer or a curse.
Ji-hoon said nothing. He knew.
He could feel her devotion leaking through the cracks of the building.
The camera feeds Joon-won set up showed nothing — just empty hallways, still streets — but Ji-hoon didn't need footage. He could hear the threat in the silence itself.
So-hee wasn't stupid.
She was patient.
Dangerously so.
At 2:47 a.m., another letter slid under the door.
No knock. No sound. Just the paper arriving like a ghost.
Joon-won sprang toward it, yanking it up like it might explode. He opened it roughly, scanning it with trembling fingers.
Ji-hoon listened carefully as Joon-won read aloud, voice tight.
My dearest Ji-hoon,
They're lying to you again. I saw the man you met with today. The one with the leather jacket and the bad haircut. He's working against you. I know what he's planning. I know everything.
Don't worry. I'll take care of it. You won't have to lift a finger. You'll be free. You'll be safe.
I'll make sure no one ever hurts you again.
P.S. You should really close your blinds more often. Some people might get the wrong idea. But not me. Never me.
Joon-won looked up, blood draining from his face.
"She's watching now."
Ji-hoon folded the paper in half slowly.
"Get the emergency bag," he said.
Joon-won didn't argue. He disappeared into the bedroom, returning moments later with a black duffel bag already packed for emergencies — burner phones, cash, IDs, clean clothes.
"We're not staying?" Joon-won asked.
Ji-hoon shook his head once. "Not here. Not tonight."
If So-hee was this close, this emboldened, she would not stop at watching.
She was escalating.
The next move would be contact.
Physical. Violent. Inevitable.
Ji-hoon zipped his jacket, slipping the emergency duffel over his shoulder. He paused by the door, senses flaring outward.
"She's still there," he murmured.
Joon-won gripped the bat tighter. "Then let's make her think we're not scared."
Ji-hoon offered a small, humorless smile.
"I'm not scared," he said.
And he wasn't.
He was furious.
The plan was simple: get to the car, get to a safehouse, regroup.
But nothing about So-hee was simple.
As soon as they stepped into the hallway, Ji-hoon knew something was wrong.
The air smelled off — not the usual stale building scent, but something chemical, sharp, almost sweet.
Perfume.
The same perfume that clung to the letters.
Joon-won smelled it too. He swore under his breath, bat raised.
"She's inside the building."
Ji-hoon nodded. His whole body was humming, a tuning fork struck too hard.
They moved quickly, silently, down the hall.
Ji-hoon didn't need sight to know the building was wrong tonight.
It breathed differently.
It held its breath.
When they reached the elevator, Joon-won slammed the call button.
Nothing.
Dead.
Ji-hoon turned toward the stairs automatically.
And that's when he heard it.
A laugh.
Soft. Giggling. Coming from below.
So-hee.
Joon-won froze, wide-eyed.
"She's blocking the exits," he whispered.
Ji-hoon's mind raced.
If So-hee was on the stairs, and the elevators were dead, that left only one option — the fire escape.
Not ideal. Exposed. Dangerous. But they didn't have a choice.
He jerked his head toward the window at the end of the hall.
Joon-won got the message. He smashed the glass with the bat in one swing, shards scattering across the floor.
Cold night air rushed in, slicing across Ji-hoon's face.
They climbed out onto the metal grate of the fire escape, moving fast.
Behind them, in the stairwell, the door creaked open.
Ji-hoon didn't look back.
He didn't have to.
He could feel her grinning.
They hit the ground running.
The car was parked two blocks down, in a covered garage. Safe enough if they moved fast.
Joon-won drove, hands white-knuckled on the wheel.
Ji-hoon sat stiffly beside him, duffel bag at his feet, pulse hammering.
Neither spoke until they were three blocks away, buildings blurring past in the night.
Finally, Joon-won exhaled hard.
"She's crazy," he said.
"She's obsessed," Ji-hoon corrected. "There's a difference."
They drove another mile in silence.
And then Ji-hoon said, very quietly, "She's going to kill someone."
Joon-won glanced at him, mouth tight.
"You think she's that far gone?"
Ji-hoon nodded once.
Obsession like that — pure, feral, unchecked — it didn't end in fan mail.
It ended in blood.
When they reached the safehouse, Ji-hoon swept the small apartment with methodical efficiency. Joon-won double-checked the locks, set up the temporary surveillance feeds.
They worked silently, efficiently. Both of them knew time was short.
By 4:00 a.m., the place was as secure as it could be.
Ji-hoon stood by the window again, listening to the hush of early morning.
He could still feel her out there. Somewhere in the city.
Thinking of him.
Planning for him.
Maybe even bleeding for him.
So-hee's devotion was a hunger.
And Ji-hoon knew — without question — that sooner or later, she would make her move.
Not with letters.
Not with pastries.
Not with whispered phone calls.
No.
The next time she came to him, it would be with something sharp.
Something final.
Ji-hoon's fists clenched at his sides.
He wasn't afraid.
But he was tired.
Tired of being hunted.
Tired of being seen as something to be possessed.
He closed the blinds tightly, shutting the city out.
Tomorrow, they would go hunting first.
Before she got the chance.