The Obsession Begins

Sleep refused to visit Tara that night. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw him — Sangwoo, standing in the rain, his hand brushing hers, his voice echoing in her head:

> “You shouldn’t tell me that. It only makes me want to.”

She sat on the edge of her bed, heart still thumping.

How could one stranger cause such chaos inside her?

She finally drifted off near dawn, but her phone’s buzz woke her. Dozens of messages — anonymous accounts tagging her again. Some called her names, others demanded she “leave their idol alone.”

She sighed and threw the phone onto her pillow. “This is ridiculous,” she muttered.

But somewhere across Seoul, someone else was wide awake too — watching, reading every one of those comments with a face carved from cold anger.

Sangwoo’s manager had warned him: “Don’t get involved. Don’t react.”

But Sangwoo wasn’t listening anymore.

When he saw strangers calling Tara cruel things online, something inside him snapped. The girl who had done nothing — dragged into his world, hurt because of him.

He scrolled through the comments silently, then locked his phone. His reflection in the dark glass of his hotel window looked nothing like the charming idol the world adored.

No smile. No warmth. Only a man quietly unraveling.

He picked up his phone again — and called someone.

“Find out who’s behind those hate accounts,” he ordered flatly.

The person on the other end hesitated. “Hyung… are you sure? The company—”

“Just do it,” Sangwoo cut in, voice sharp. “And make sure they stop.”

That evening, Tara’s walk home felt heavier. The streetlights flickered, rain still damp in the air. Every sound made her glance back — a car engine, a footstep, a shadow.

She told herself she was being paranoid. Seoul was crowded; people came and went.

But when she reached her building, she froze.

A sleek black car was parked at the corner. Its tinted windows hid the driver, but something about it felt familiar.

She quickened her pace and entered the lobby.

Upstairs, she poured herself a cup of tea, trying to shake the unease. But when her doorbell rang, she nearly spilled it.

“Who’s there?” she asked, voice tight.

“It’s me.”

Her breath caught. That voice again.

She opened the door halfway — and there he was, dressed simply in a hoodie and cap.

“Sangwoo—”

“Can I come in?”

“You shouldn’t be here,” she whispered, looking past him, worried someone had followed.

“No one saw me,” he said, stepping inside before she could refuse. He looked around her small apartment, his gaze softening for the first time. “You live alone?”

“Yes, and I like it that way.”

He smiled faintly, eyes dark. “I don’t.”

Her pulse quickened. “Why are you here?”

He reached into his pocket and placed something on the table — her phone. She blinked in surprise. “How—”

“I saw what they said to you,” he interrupted, his tone low and dangerous. “It won’t happen again.”

She frowned. “What do you mean—”

“I made sure of it.”

Tara stared at him, unease curling in her stomach. “You… can’t control everyone, Sangwoo.”

He tilted his head slightly, studying her. “Maybe not everyone. But I can control what’s mine.”

Her breath hitched. “I’m not yours.”

His lips curved, half a smile, half a warning. “Not yet.”

When he left, the air still carried his scent — cedar and rain. Tara sank onto her couch, trembling between anger, confusion, and something else she couldn’t name.

Outside, the car engine started again.

Inside, her heart whispered what her mind refused to admit:

She wasn’t safe from him.

And maybe… she didn’t want to be.

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