🖤 STRAY KIDS FANFICTION: The Witness (3)🔥💋

Morning light filtered weakly through the shattered windows of the warehouse, casting shadows that moved like ghosts. You stirred awake, your body tangled in heavy blankets, your back warm against solid muscle.

Chan.

His arm was wrapped tight around your waist, fingers curled possessively, breathing slow and dangerously calm.

You should've been panicking. But you weren't.

You felt safe. And that terrified you more than anything.

You slowly sat up, untangling yourself from him. You didn't want to wake him—because when he was asleep, he looked... human. Almost peaceful. Like the monster vanished for a while.

But of course...

"Where are you going?"

His voice. Groggy. Deep. Laced with something dark.

You froze.

"Just to get water."

He sat up, shirt ruffled, hair messy, eyes wild. "Without telling me?"

You blinked. "I didn't think I had to."

He stood, and suddenly the air shifted. It was like watching a storm build behind his eyes.

"You don't disappear on me. Ever."

"Chan..." you said softly, placing your hand on his chest.

He caught your wrist.

"You're mine, remember?" he whispered. "Mine to protect. Mine to keep. Don't make me remind you what happens when people take what's mine."

💣

Before you could answer, the door burst open—loud footsteps, voices.

"Y/N! There you are!" It was Han.

He smiled, bright and chaotic as always, holding a tray of food like a peace offering. "I brought breakfast. Thought I'd sneak you out for some fresh air too."

Fresh air? Tempting.

But Chan?

Chan's whole body went rigid.

His eyes locked on Han like a sniper on a target.

"Touch her," he said slowly, "and I'll break every bone in your body."

"Bro," Han laughed nervously, "relax. I'm just being nice."

"She doesn't need your niceness."

"Maybe she does," Han said, voice lowering. "Maybe she wants something you can't give her."

💥 That's when it happened.

Chan moved. Fast. Silent. Terrifying.

He slammed Han against the wall, forearm to his throat, teeth bared. "She doesn't want me. She needs me. You think I haven't seen the way she looks at me? The way she melts when I touch her?"

You stepped in instinctively, hands out. "Chan! Stop!"

But he didn't look at you.

Not yet.

His gaze stayed on Han like he was seconds from ending him.

"She's not a toy for you to flirt with. She's not your damn project. She's mine."

Han choked slightly, but didn't fight back. "You're not in love with her, you're addicted."

"And you think she's not addicted too?" Chan sneered. "Look at her. She came back to me. She stayed. She kissed me."

You flinched.

Because it was true.

And he finally turned to you, his expression softening in the most dangerous way.

"You want me, Y/N. Say it."

You looked between them—Han, confused and bruised. Chan, furious and desperate. And you?

You were trembling.

But not from fear.

From need.

"...I want you," you whispered.

And that was all it took.

Chan dropped Han like dead weight and stormed toward you. His hand wrapped around your jaw, and then—

He kissed you.

Again.

Hard. Hot. Unforgiving.

Right in front of everyone.

It was a warning. A claim. A confession.

And when he pulled away, lips brushing your ear, voice dark and breathless...

"If anyone else touches you again, I'll paint these walls red."

The air in the warehouse was too thick. Tension still crackled from the showdown with Han like static in your veins. You hadn't spoken a word since that kiss—the kiss—that had left your lips bruised and your heart unrecognizable.

Bang Chan watched you.

Every second.

Like a wolf circling prey... or maybe like a man staring at the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

Then he spoke, low and calm—too calm.

"Pack your things."

You blinked. "What?"

"I said—" he stepped closer, voice dipping into something unholy "—pack your things. You're coming with me."

"Where?"

"Somewhere only I know."

You stared at him. He wasn't asking. This was command, not a conversation.

"I don't need rescuing," you said quietly, almost challenging him.

Chan's smirk was cold. "No, but I need to keep you alive. And if that means dragging you out of here and locking you in my house until you understand what you mean to me... then so be it."

You should've been terrified.

But all you felt was heat.

And a tiny part of your soul whispered, Finally.

The drive was silent.

You sat in the passenger seat of a matte black car, staring out at the rain-laced forest roads. No cell towers. No city lights. Just miles of nowhere.

Chan didn't speak. His hand rested on the gear shift, knuckles tight, jaw clenched like he was holding back a hundred things he wanted to say.

His eyes flicked to you.

"You're thinking too loud."

You turned to him. "I'm wondering if I'm crazy."

He didn't hesitate. "You are. You'd have to be, to stay with me."

"Then why haven't you let me go?"

He smirked, slow and sinful. "Because I don't want to."

The cabin was straight out of a twisted fairytale.

Wooden, secluded, and almost romantic—if you ignored the heavy locks on the doors and the subtle cameras in the corners.

He opened the door for you like a gentleman. Held your waist like a sinner. And whispered into your ear as you passed:

"Now you're exactly where I want you."

Hours passed. He gave you space. Cooked for you. Sat across the room, reading some worn-out book like he wasn't lowkey unraveling.

And you?

You couldn't stop watching him.

That damn jawline. The way he rolled his sleeves up. The way his eyes darkened every time they met yours.

You weren't scared anymore. You were consumed.

So you stood up.

Walked over to him.

And sat on his lap.

Silence. He didn't move.

"You're playing with fire," he said, voice gravel and warning.

You leaned in, eyes locked on his. "Then burn me."

And he snapped.

One hand on your waist, the other buried in your hair, pulling you in as his mouth crashed into yours—hot and hungry, but controlled. Calculated.

He kissed you like he had all the time in the world to destroy you. Like he planned to.

Your fingers tangled in his shirt, your body pressed against his—small compared to him, but bold. Reckless.

He pulled back, eyes black with desire.

"I'll ruin you," he breathed. "I swear to God, I'll ruin you."

You smiled. "Good."

And then he kissed you again.

Slower. Deeper. Like he wanted to memorize you. Claim you. Mark every inch of your soul.

And when he whispered against your lips, voice like velvet over a blade...

"Tell me you belong to me."

You didn't even hesitate.

"I belong to you."

You didn't know how long you'd been at the cabin.

Days blurred together—somewhere between soft touches and sharp warnings. Between whispered confessions and stolen glances that felt more like shackles than comfort. The snow outside fell endlessly. Silent. Inevitable.

Like Chan.

He barely let you out of his sight. And even when he wasn't touching you, you felt touched. Watched. Owned.

But here's the worst part?

You didn't want to leave.

You should've. You used to think about escape. Now?

You wondered what his skin would feel like if you traced it at 3AM. What his voice would sound like if he said "I love you" instead of "you're mine." You started calling it the Chan Effect.

And tonight, it hit hard.

It was late. You stood in front of the fireplace, wrapped in one of his shirts—way too big, way too soft, smelling like cedar and cologne and sin.

You didn't hear him walk in. But you felt him.

Like a shadow pressed against your spine.

"Can't sleep?" he murmured, voice rough from silence.

You didn't turn around. "Thinking."

"About leaving?" His tone was unreadable. But the tension in the room? Palpable.

You turned now—slowly—meeting his gaze.

"I think about a lot of things. What if I'm not meant for this? For you?"

He took a slow step forward. Then another. Every inch closed felt like a noose tightening.

"But you didn't run," he whispered, stopping in front of you. "You're still here. You could've stabbed me in my sleep. Screamed. Left."

You stared at him. "Why haven't you let me go?"

He lifted your chin with two fingers. Gentle. Possessive.

"Because you're the only thing that makes me feel real."

You blinked. That was new.

He moved closer, forehead pressing to yours. Breath hot. Lips brushing.

"You're not a hostage anymore," he said. "You're a choice. My choice."

And then?

You kissed him this time.

You kissed him like he was the answer to a question you didn't want to ask.

His hands gripped your waist, sliding under the fabric of his shirt you were wearing. He hoisted you up effortlessly, sitting you on the table by the fire like you were fragile glass... and he was the only one allowed to break you.

"You're so small," he murmured into your neck, kissing you there, each word burning against your skin. "So soft. You trust me like I won't wreck you."

"Maybe I want to be wrecked," you whispered.

His groan was pure feral.

He kissed you again—messy and consuming—like he was about to lose his damn mind. His hands roamed, but still, he held back. Always. Like some tiny thread was keeping him from going too far.

You clutched his face, dragging his mouth back to yours. You weren't running. You weren't scared.

And he knew it.

"You don't belong to the world anymore," he said breathlessly. "You belong to me."

"I already told you," you whispered, pressing your forehead to his. "I do."

And something snapped behind his eyes.

The kind of love that didn't save—it devoured.

He didn't take you to the bedroom that night.

He took you right there—on the edge of danger, addiction, and adoration.

And you let him.

Because for once... being ruined never felt so much like being wanted.

--TO BE CONTINUED--

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