☆Entry⁷

Nam y/nEntry no.700/00/0000

You hear the snap of movement before you feel it. For someone who has been targeted a lot of times in your sleep , you still had some shitty self awareness and survival skills.

A shadow surged toward you, and then—tightness. It's sudden, vicious, and unforgiving. Your breath halted mid-inhale as fingers, calloused and unrelenting, clamp around your throat.

It’s not just pressure—it’s a command, a violence that overruled the body's innate rhythm of survival. 

At first, you tried to suck in air. Your lungs rebel, heaving uselessly against the blockade, an instinctive panic surging through you like wildfire.

The world narrows; your vision quivers. There's a faint ringing in your ears, not loud but insistent, a cruel herald to the chaos inside you. 

The pain is strange—part searing, part numb. The vise tightens, compressing delicate cartilage, reducing your neck to an object of manipulation. You feel the throbbing pulse of blood, hammering through vessels that ache to burst under the strain. Your heartbeat, once steady, now races like a trapped bird flinging itself at invisible walls. 

Your hands move without thought, clawing at the iron grip. Your nails scrape flesh, but it’s futile. The grip doesn’t waver, doesn’t loosen—it only tightens. A fire kindles in your chest as the oxygen slips further from your grasp, each second another step toward suffocation. 

The world begins to tilt. Colors blur, blending into one another in a grotesque kaleidoscope(the way i had to google if i used the correct word😭). Your mind starts to scatter, thoughts dissolving into primal desperation. You’re aware of the wet, gurgling noises spilling from your mouth—pathetic, half-formed attempts to beg, to scream, to breathe. 

Then comes the darkness—not a sudden curtain falling, but a creeping fog that dims the edges of your vision. You feel heavy, your limbs like lead weights tethered to the ground. It’s as if gravity itself has multiplied, pressing you down, forcing you inward. 

The pain dulls as the fog thickens. The urgency fades too, replaced by a chilling resignation. Your body stops fighting as if it has finally understood that no struggle will undo the steel bands constricting your throat. Somewhere deep inside, a part of you wonders if this is it—if this is how it ends. 

And then there’s the sound, or lack thereof. The silence is deafening. Your heartbeat, so frantic moments ago, seems to slow in your ears, fading into the background. The world feels distant, unreal, as though you’re floating above yourself, watching the scene unfold. 

And as quick as it came it left causing you to jerk up in a sitting position coughing the fucking hell out of your lungs, tears in your eyes and your lungs feeling like the fiery pits of hell, what hurt the most wasn't the fact that you could've died, it was knowing who could've killed you.

How long would you have to suffer from the nights of fear and near death experiences? Only those watching from above knew.

Nam Y/nSide entry⁶00/00/0000Note: "they're starting to creep me out."

"None of this would've happened if you stayed away like I told you," Chan growls, his voice low and sharp, slicing through the stillness of the second-floor lounge. 

You freeze mid-step, a quip ready on your tongue but stolen by the intensity of his gaze. His dark eyes burn into yours, the heat in them unmistakable, and it makes your stomach twist. Not in fear, no—you've never been afraid of him, even when you probably should have been. It's something else entirely, something you’d never admit, least of all to him. 

"Well, excuse me," you shoot back, folding your arms and tilting your head, the picture of defiance. "But I don’t recall signing up for the ‘Bang Chan Dictatorship.’ Last I checked, I’m not one of your little lackeys who snaps to attention every time you bark an order." 

The faintest smirk curls at the edge of his lips, infuriatingly smug, like he knows exactly what buttons to push. "Is that what you think this is? Orders?" He leans back against the wall, his arms crossing as his voice drops lower. "This was me trying to protect you." 

"Protect me?!" You laugh, a short, bitter sound. "From what? Your band of lunatics? Or was it from you, oh mighty ruler of Stayzone?" You gesture around the room with mock grandeur, your sarcasm dripping from every word. 

His jaw tightens, and for a moment, you think you’ve hit a nerve. But then his smirk returns, more dangerous this time. He pushes off the wall and takes a step toward you, and despite every instinct telling you not to, you stand your ground. 

"Yeah," he says simply, his voice low enough to send shivers down your spine. "From me. From all of this." 

You swallow, your throat suddenly dry, but you refuse to let him see you falter. "Hate to break it to you, Chan, but I don't need your protection. If I wanted to leave, I would’ve left." 

He’s closer now, the space between you shrinking with every deliberate step he takes. His presence is overwhelming, filling the room like a storm cloud about to burst. "That’s the problem," he says, his voice soft but lethal. "You don’t know when to leave. You wouldn't be abke to anyway—You think you can handle it, handle me but you can’t. None of you ever can." 

His words hit harder than you expect, and for a brief moment, the fiery retort dies in your throat. You’re not used to this Chan—the one who speaks with quiet venom instead of his usual bluster. It’s unnerving, and you hate that part of you—the part that simps for him—wants to see what happens when he breaks. 

"Maybe I don’t want to handle you," you say finally, your voice softer but no less defiant. "Maybe I just want to be here, consequences be damned. Did you ever think of that?" 

He stops a foot away from you, so close you can feel the heat radiating off him. His eyes search yours, and for a moment, you think you see something crack beneath the surface—regret, or maybe it’s just your imagination. 

"You’re playing a dangerous game, Y/n," he says, his tone dropping further, the warning in his voice unmistakable. 

You raise an eyebrow, refusing to look away. "What else is new?" 

Chan’s warning hangs in the air like smoke, thick and suffocating. His eyes, dark and unreadable, pin you in place. He’s closer than he should be, closer than you want to admit you like. The bastard knows it too, you’re sure of it—the way he looms just enough to make you feel the power he carries so effortlessly.

You meet his gaze head-on, your chin tilted defiantly. "Dangerous game? Please. You’re not that scary, Chan." 

"Not scary, huh?" His smirk widens, but there’s no humor in it. It’s predatory, dangerous. "You think you’ve got me figured out, don’t you? You think all of this"—he gestures vaguely around the room—"is just some messed-up playpen for my... friends and me to wreak havoc in. But you don’t know the half of it, Y/n." 

You take a step closer, refusing to back down even though every nerve in your body is screaming at you to be careful. "Maybe I don’t," you say, your voice sharp. "But I know one thing for sure—you don’t get to decide where I go, who I talk to, or what I do. You don’t control me." 

He leans down slightly, his face now inches from yours, and your breath hitches before you can stop it. Damn him. "You sure about that?" His voice is a whisper, but it feels like a shout inside your chest. 

You roll your eyes, desperate to ignore the heat pooling in your stomach. "God, you’re insufferable," you mutter, stepping back to put some much-needed distance between you. 

But he doesn’t let you off the hook. He follows, slow and deliberate, his movements as calculated as his words. "And yet, here you are," he says, his tone almost mocking. "If I’m so insufferable, why haven’t you left? Why do you keep coming back, Y/n? Answer me that." 

Your fists clench at your sides. He’s baiting you, and worse, it’s working. "Because someone has to keep you and your psycho friends from burning this place to the ground," you snap. 

"Right," he says, dragging the word out like it’s some private joke. "You’re just here to save the day, aren’t you? The noble hero, swooping in to fix what you don’t understand." 

"Don’t patronize me," you bite out, your voice trembling with anger. "I don’t need to understand your twisted little world to see that you’re all a bunch of overgrown kids playing God. Newsflash, Chan—you’re not invincible. None of you are." 

For a moment, you think you’ve finally struck a chord. His smirk falters, just barely, but it’s enough to give you a sliver of satisfaction. Then he straightens, his expression hardening into something colder, sharper. 

"Maybe not," he says quietly, his voice like ice. "But at least I know who I am. Can you say the same, Y/N?" 

The question cuts deeper than you’d like to admit. You open your mouth to retort, but no words come. His gaze softens, just for a fraction of a second, and you hate the way it makes your heart stutter. 

"You think you’re so different from us," he continues, his tone almost gentle now. "But you wouldn’t be here if you didn’t have a little chaos in you too. You wouldn’t keep coming back." 

You laugh, but it’s hollow, forced. "Don’t flatter yourself. I’m not here because of you." 

"Aren’t you?" he counters, stepping closer again, and this time you can’t move back. You’re trapped between him and the edge of the couch. "Because it seems to me like you’ve been pretty interested in me since the day we met. Or am I imagining things?" 

"God, you’re so full of yourself," you say, your voice shaking, though you’re not sure if it’s from anger or something else entirely. "Not everything revolves around you, Chan." 

"No," he agrees, his voice softening to a near-whisper. "Just you." 

The words hang between you, heavy and loaded with meaning you’re not ready to unpack. His eyes bore into yours, and for the first time, you’re not sure if you want to run from him or toward him. 

You swallow hard, trying to regain control of the conversation—and your own treacherous thoughts. "You don’t scare me," you say again, but this time, the words feel weaker, like a half-hearted attempt to convince yourself. 

He leans in closer, his breath warm against your skin. "You should." 

You should. 

The words send a jolt through you, hot and electric, but you refuse to let him see it. Instead, you let out a sharp laugh, masking the way your heart is pounding so hard it might break through your ribs. "Right. Big, bad Chan. What are you going to do, glower me to death?" 

His smirk sharpens, but his eyes don’t lose that dangerous gleam. "Keep pushing, love, See what happens." 

"God, you’re exhausting," you snap, your voice louder now, trying to drown out the part of you that is dangerously close to crumbling under the weight of his presence. "You act like you’re doing me some big favor by being a controlling jerk. Newsflash: I don’t need your help, and I sure as hell don’t need your permission to be here." 

"You don’t need me, huh?" His voice dips lower, softer, and somehow that makes it worse. He takes another step forward, leaving barely a breath of space between you. "So why are you still here, Y/n? If you don’t need me, then why haven’t you left?" 

"Why haven't you found other psychos to leech on in here? There's a lot more than just 8 ... there's hundreds"

Your jaw tightens, and for a second, the words stick in your throat. He’s too close now, close enough that you can see the faint freckles dusting his cheekbones, close enough to feel the heat radiating off him like a furnace. You hate that your pulse picks up at the proximity, that your body betrays you in ways you can’t control. 

"You want to know why I’m still here?" you say finally, your voice low and steady, though the fire in your chest feels like it’s about to explode. "Because someone has to keep you from losing your damn mind. Because for all your posturing and your control freak nonsense, you’re just as messed up as the rest of them. And maybe, just maybe, I’m sticking around because I’m not afraid to call you out on it." 

He stares at you, his expression unreadable for once. The silence stretches between you, heavy and suffocating, until finally, he lets out a low chuckle. It’s not the reaction you expect, and it throws you off-balance. 

"You think you’ve got me all figured out, don’t you?" he says, his voice tinged with amusement, but there’s an edge to it that you can’t quite place. 

"Better than you think," you fire back, crossing your arms over your chest like it’ll somehow shield you from the way he’s looking at you, like he’s peeling back every layer of armor you’ve ever built. 

"Really?" He tilts his head, studying you with a scrutiny that makes your skin prickle. "So tell me, Y/N—if you’ve got me all figured out, then why do you keep looking at me like that?" 

Your stomach drops. "Like what?" 

"Like you’re two seconds away from either punching me or—" He pauses, his smirk widening, "--something else entirely." 

Heat rushes to your face, and you silently curse your inability to keep your emotions in check around him. "You’re delusional," you mutter, turning away to put some much-needed space between you. 

But Chan doesn’t let you off the hook that easily. He grabs your wrist—not hard, but firm enough to stop you in your tracks. "Am I?" he says, his voice quieter now, but no less intense. 

You turn back to him, your pulse racing under his touch. His eyes search yours, and for a moment, the bravado slips from both of you. There’s something raw and unspoken in his gaze, something that makes your chest tighten. 

"You’re so stubborn," he mutters, almost to himself. 

"Look who’s talking," you counter, though your voice lacks the usual bite. 

For a second, neither of you says anything. The room feels smaller, the air heavier. You’re hyper-aware of how close he is, of the way his thumb brushes against your wrist, of the unspoken tension crackling like a live wire between you. 

"You should leave," he says finally, his voice barely above a whisper. 

"Maybe I don’t want to," you admit, the words slipping out before you can stop them. 

His grip tightens slightly, and his eyes darken, a flicker of something dangerous and conflicted flashing across his face. "You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into." 

"Maybe I do," you challenge, stepping closer despite every alarm in your head telling you to back away. 

He exhales sharply, his jaw clenching as if he’s fighting some internal battle. "You’re going to regret this," he says, but the words lack conviction. 

You lift your chin, meeting his gaze with every ounce of defiance you can muster. "Try me." 

Y/n's side note: "to be honest, I didn't know what the fuck was going, all I know is that I wasn't in control even if I thought I was."

His words hang in the air, a challenge and a warning all at once. You hold his gaze, refusing to be the one to look away first, even as the intensity of his eyes threatens to pin you to the floor. You can feel your pulse thudding in your ears, his grip on your wrist sending sparks of heat up your arm.

"Try you?" he murmurs, his voice dipping lower, more dangerous, like he’s testing the weight of the words. His lips curl in a smirk that’s both maddening and magnetic. "You sure about that?" 

"Why not?" you fire back, forcing steel into your tone even as your stomach churns with a confusing cocktail of defiance and something dangerously close to longing. "You think you’re such a big deal, Chan, but I’m not afraid of you. You don’t scare me." 

He lets out a low, humorless chuckle, his thumb brushing ever so slightly against the inside of your wrist—a movement so subtle you might have imagined it if not for the goosebumps that rise on your skin. "You keep saying that," he murmurs, his voice quiet but cutting. "But your body says otherwise." 

Your breath catches, and your heart thunders in protest. His words are a weapon, carefully chosen and perfectly delivered, and they hit their mark dead-on. But you refuse to let him see how deeply they affect you. 

"You're so full of yourself," you bite out, wrenching your arm free from his grasp and taking a deliberate step back. You need space—distance—to breathe, to think. But even with the physical gap between you, his presence feels as overwhelming as ever, like he’s everywhere all at once. 

"And you’re full of lies," he counters, stepping forward, closing the space you’d just tried to create. "You keep pretending you don’t feel it, but we both know you do." 

"Feel what?" you demand, your voice sharp even as the question twists in your chest. 

"This." His hand gestures vaguely between the two of you, but his voice is steady, sure. "Whatever this is. The way you look at me, the way you can’t seem to stay away, no matter how many times I’ve told you to." 

You hate how the truth in his words slices through your defenses, leaving you exposed. You hate even more that he’s right. Because no matter how hard you try to convince yourself otherwise, you know you can’t stay away from him. 

But admitting that? Giving him the satisfaction of knowing he’s right? That’s not happening. 

"You’re delusional," you say instead, folding your arms over your chest like it’s some kind of shield. "This isn’t about you. It’s about—" 

"Stayzone?" he interrupts, his tone laced with skepticism. "The place you claim to hate so much? Sure, Y/N. Keep telling yourself that." 

"It’s not just about Stayzone," you snap, frustration bubbling over. "It’s about—" 

"Me," he cuts in again, his smirk widening as he takes another step toward you. "It’s always about me, isn’t it?" 

Your cheeks burn with anger—or maybe it’s something else—but you hold your ground. "Get over yourself, Chan." 

He stops inches away, his expression shifting from smug to something darker, something more serious. "Maybe you’re right," he says quietly, his voice softer now. "Maybe I am full of myself. But you know what, Y/N? At least I’m honest about it. Can you say the same?" 

His words strike a nerve, and for a moment, you can’t find a response. He’s too close again, and this time, you can’t tell if it’s your stubbornness or something deeper keeping you from stepping away. 

"I don’t owe you anything," you say finally, your voice trembling with barely-contained emotion. 

"You don’t," he agrees, his gaze unwavering. "But you’re still here. And I think we both know why." 

The silence that follows is deafening. The air feels thick, charged, like the moment before a storm. You open your mouth to speak, to tell him he’s wrong, but the words won’t come. 

Because deep down, you know he’s not wrong. 

His eyes search yours, and for a moment, you think you see something break in his carefully-crafted facade. His jaw tightens, his gaze flicking briefly to your lips before snapping back to your eyes. 

"This is a mistake," he mutters, more to himself than to you. 

"Then why can’t you walk away?" you challenge, your voice barely above a whisper. 

His expression hardens, but there’s a flicker of something vulnerable in his eyes—something raw and unguarded. "Because I can’t," he says simply. 

The honesty in his words is like a punch to the gut, and for a moment, the fiery rebuttal you’d planned dies on your lips. 

"Chan..." you begin, your voice softer now, but he shakes his head, cutting you off. 

"Don’t," he says, his tone firm but not unkind. "Don’t say it." 

You hesitate, the tension between you thick enough to choke on. Part of you wants to push him further, to force him to confront whatever this is between you. But another part of you—the part that knows just how dangerous he can be—wonders if you’re already in too deep. 

"Just so you know," Chan says, his voice low and teasing, "I’m harder to handle than Seungmin in bed." 

The words hang in the air for a beat too long, and you blink, caught completely off-guard. Your brain stutters, struggling to process what he just said, before your mouth takes over in pure reflex. 

"What the hell, Chan?" you sputter, your voice louder than you intended as you glare at him. 

His smirk deepens, thoroughly pleased with himself, and he leans against the wall like he owns the place—which, to be fair, he practically does. "What? You’ve been spending a lot of time around him lately. Figured I’d set the record straight." 

You gape at him, your face burning. "T-that is not what’s happening, and you know it!" 

"Do I?" he muses, tilting his head slightly. "Because it kind of looks like it from where I’m standing. But hey, who am I to judge?" 

"You’re unbelievable," you mutter, running a hand through your hair in frustration. "Do you just wake up every day and choose to be this obnoxious?" 

"Only when I’m around you," he replies smoothly, his voice dripping with sarcasm and something else—something you can’t quite pin down. 

You groan, throwing your hands up in exasperation. "Oh, fantastic. I’m so glad I can bring out the absolute worst in you." 

"The worst?" He straightens, taking a step closer, and suddenly his tone shifts—lower, quieter, but no less intense. "You don’t even know what the worst looks like, babygirl." 

You freeze, his words sending a chill down your spine despite the heat simmering in the room. There’s something in his eyes now, something dark and dangerous that makes your breath catch. 

But you refuse to back down. "Then show me," you challenge, lifting your chin defiantly. 

His gaze narrows, and for a moment, you think you’ve crossed a line. But then he laughs—a low, humorless sound that sends shivers down your spine. 

"You don’t want that," he says, his voice almost a whisper. 

"Maybe I do," you counter, stepping closer despite every instinct telling you to be careful. 

He studies you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. "You think you’re ready for me?" he asks finally, his tone almost mocking. 

"You and I go way back y/n, you just don't want to remember when"

"I think you’re full of crap," you shoot back, folding your arms over your chest. "You act like you’re this big, bad wolf, but all I see is a guy who’s too scared to let anyone get close." 

Something flickers in his eyes—anger, maybe, or pain, or both. "You have no idea what you’re talking about." 

"Don’t I?" you press, your voice rising with frustration. "You push everyone away, Chan. You think it makes you strong, but it just makes you lonely." 

His jaw tightens, and for a moment, you think he’s going to snap. But instead, he closes the distance between you in one swift step, his presence overwhelming as he towers over you. 

"Do you want to know why I push people away?" he asks, his voice low and dangerous. "Because when people get close, they get hurt. And I’m not going to let that happen to you." 

Your breath catches, his words hitting you like a punch to the gut. "Chan..." 

"I’m serious, Y/n" he says, his tone softening just slightly. "You think you can handle me, but you don’t know what you’re getting yourself into. This—" He gestures between the two of you, his voice heavy with emotion. "This is a mistake." 

"Then why are you still here?" you ask, your voice trembling despite your best efforts to sound strong. 

For a moment, he doesn’t answer. His gaze locks with yours, and the tension in the room reaches a breaking point. 

"Because I can’t stay away from you," he admits finally, his voice barely above a whisper. 

"None of us can"

The vulnerability in his words sends a jolt through you, and for a second, all the fire and sarcasm drains away, leaving only the raw, unspoken truth between you. 

Present time.

The white roses sway gently in the breeze, their pristine petals catching the afternoon sunlight like tiny mirrors. You sit stiffly on the cold bench, your gaze flickering between the delicate flowers and Minho, who crouches a few feet away, meticulously trimming one of the bushes with a pair of silver shears. 

His movements are precise, almost surgical, and for a moment, you wonder if he even realizes you’re here—or if he simply doesn’t care. Probably the latter. Minho isn’t exactly the type to make you feel welcome, even in his so-called sanctuary. 

You shift slightly, wincing as the ache around your neck flares up. The bruises from last night’s encounter with your grim reaper throb in time with your pulse, a stark reminder of how close things came to going horribly wrong. You pull the collar of your white dress higher, hiding the worst of the marks, but the pain lingers like a phantom, impossible to ignore. 

Minho doesn’t look up. He doesn’t ask why you’re here, doesn’t comment on the tension etched into your shoulders or the way you’re cradling your wrist like it’s something precious. Instead, he focuses on the roses, his hands moving with a kind of reverence that feels at odds with his usual sharp-edged demeanor. 

"Do you always ignore your guests like this," you say finally, breaking the silence, "or am I just lucky?" 

Minho pauses, his shears hovering over a particularly stubborn stem. For a second, you think he might actually respond. But then he snips the stem clean and moves on, his silence as deliberate as his movements. 

You roll your eyes, leaning back against the bench. "Right. Why bother talking when you can just radiate indifference instead?" 

"I didn’t invite you," he says flatly, his voice cutting through the air like the shears in his hand. "You showed up on your own." 

"And yet, here I am," you counter, crossing your arms over your chest. "Lucky you." 

He doesn’t dignify that with a response, which only irritates you further. Typical Minho. Always so damn composed, so maddeningly aloof. 

"Nice roses," you say after a moment, your tone dripping with sarcasm.

"They’re not for you,Gave you enough" he replies coolly, still not looking at you. 

You scoff. "Yeah, I figured. You’re not exactly the ‘flowers and chocolates’ kind of guy, are you?" 

"No," he says simply, clipping another stem with the same mechanical precision. 

The silence stretches between you again, heavy and suffocating. You glance around the garden, taking in the endless rows of white roses, their petals almost too perfect, too pristine. Like everything else in Stayville, the garden feels... off. Beautiful, yes, but also cold, sterile, like it exists in its own little world, untouched by anything real. 

It reminds you of Minho. 

"You know," you say, your voice quieter now, "for someone who’s so obsessed with control, you sure seem fine with ignoring things when it suits you." 

This time, he looks up, his dark eyes locking onto yours with a sharpness that makes your breath hitch. "What’s that supposed to mean?" 

You hold his gaze, refusing to back down. "It means you can pretend all you want, but I know you notice things. You see everything, Minho. You just don’t care enough to do anything about it." 

His jaw tightens, and for a moment, you think you’ve struck a nerve. But then his expression smooths out again, and he goes back to his roses, his silence more pointed than any words he could’ve said. 

"See?" you say, gesturing to him. "Exactly what I mean. You don’t even deny it." 

"Why would I?" he says, his tone devoid of emotion. "It’s true." 

You blink, caught off guard by his bluntness. "You’re not even going to try to defend yourself?" 

"Why bother?" He sets the shears down and straightens, brushing nonexistent dirt off his hands. "You’ve already made up your mind about me. Why waste my time proving you wrong?" 

His words hit harder than you expect, and for a moment, you don’t know how to respond. You glance down at your hands, tracing the faint bruises around your wrist, and wonder if he noticed them earlier. Of course he did. Minho doesn’t miss anything. 

"You really don’t care, do you?" you say finally, your voice quieter now. 

He sighs, a soft, almost imperceptible sound, and finally steps closer, standing just a few feet away. His gaze drops to your hands, lingering for a moment before meeting your eyes again. 

"You think caring means doing something," he says, his voice softer than before but still carrying that edge of arrogance. "Sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes it just means... noticing." 

His words confuse you, but before you can ask what he means, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small jar. Without a word, he sets it down on the bench beside you, his movements deliberate but detached. 

"What’s this?" you ask, frowning as you pick up the jar. 

"Arnica," he says simply. "For the bruises." 

Your stomach twists, and for a moment, you don’t know what to say. His gesture is so unexpected, so at odds with his usual coldness, that it leaves you reeling. 

"Thanks," you say finally, your voice barely above a whisper. 

"Don’t mention it," he replies, already turning back to his roses. 

You watch him for a moment, your chest tightening with emotions you don’t quite understand. Minho might not say much, but his actions speak volumes. And as much as you hate to admit it, you can’t help but wonder what else he notices—and what he chooses to ignore. 

You hold the small jar in your hand, the weight of it feeling oddly significant. For a moment, you just stare at it, the faint scent of something herbal wafting up as you twist the lid open slightly. It’s such a subtle gesture—so utterly Minho—that it somehow makes your chest tighten more than words ever could. 

"Why do you even have this?" you ask, breaking the silence, though your voice comes out softer than intended. 

He doesn’t turn around, doesn’t pause in his meticulous pruning of the rosebushes. "You think you’re the first one to get hurt around here?" 

His words are casual, almost dismissive, but they land like a stone in the pit of your stomach. You set the jar down beside you, your fingers brushing against its cool surface as you try to find your footing in this conversation. 

"You could just say you care, you know," you say after a moment, your tone more teasing than serious, though your heart beats a little faster as you wait for his response. 

He snorts softly, still not looking at you. "Why would I do that? You already think I don’t." 

There’s a flicker of something in his voice—humor, maybe, or irritation—but it’s gone too quickly for you to pin down. 

"Because it wouldn’t kill you to be honest for once," you counter, leaning back against the bench. "Or is that asking too much?" 

He straightens suddenly, his shears clicking shut as he turns to face you. His expression is calm, unreadable, but his eyes are darker than usual, a storm brewing beneath their surface. 

"You want honesty?" he asks, his voice low and measured as he steps closer. "Fine. You shouldn’t be here." 

Your breath catches at the bluntness of his words, but you refuse to let him see how much they sting. "Why? Because I don’t fit into your perfect little garden?" 

"No," he says simply, his gaze steady. "Because you’re too stubborn to realize how dangerous this place really is." 

You scoff, rolling your eyes. "Oh, please. Don’t start with the ‘you don’t belong here’ speech. I’ve heard it all before."

"Not from me," he replies, his voice quieter now but no less sharp. 

The air between you grows heavier, the weight of his words pressing down on you like the thick scent of the roses surrounding you. 

"You think I don’t know how dangerous it is?" you say, your voice rising slightly as you stand, your bruised neck throbbing with the movement. "I’m living it, Minho. Every day. So don’t stand there and act like you’re the only one who sees what’s going on." 

He doesn’t flinch at your outburst, doesn’t so much as blink. Instead, he steps closer, his calmness only fueling your frustration. 

"I know you see it," he says evenly, his dark eyes locking onto yours. "But you don’t feel it. Not the way you should. Not the way that would make you get the hell out of here before it’s too late." 

His words hit harder than you expect, the weight of them settling in your chest like a heavy stone. For a moment, the fight drains out of you, leaving only exhaustion and the dull ache of your injuries. 

"And what about you?" you ask quietly, your voice trembling slightly. "Why are you still here?" 

His jaw tightens, the first crack in his otherwise emotionless exterior. "I have my reasons. Oh right.. it's not like I can just waltz out whenever I feel like it can I?"

"That’s not an answer," you press, stepping closer despite the warning signs flashing in your mind. 

"It’s the only one you’re getting," he says, his tone firm but not unkind. 

The silence between you stretches out again, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. You glance down at the jar of arnica on the bench, the small gesture suddenly feeling much larger in the context of his words. 

"You can’t save me, you know," you say finally, your voice barely above a whisper. 

"I’m not trying to save you," he replies, his voice just as quiet. "I’m trying to make sure you don’t need saving." 

His words hang in the air, heavy with meaning, and for a moment, you don’t know how to respond. You look up at him, searching his expression for any hint of emotion, but all you find is the same calm detachment he’s always worn like armor. 

"Minho..." you begin, but he shakes his head, cutting you off. 

"Don’t," he says, his voice firm. "Don’t make this into something it’s not." 

You bite your lip, frustration bubbling up again as you take a step back. "You’re impossible, you know that?" 

"So I’ve been told," he replies, turning back to his roses as if the conversation never happened. 

You watch him for a moment, your chest tightening with a mix of anger and something you can’t quite name. But instead of pushing him further, you pick up the jar of arnica and slip it into your pocket. 

"Thanks," you say quietly, though you’re not sure if he even hears you. 

He doesn’t respond, his attention already back on the roses, but you catch the faintest flicker of a smile on his lips before you turn to leave. 

Minho’s voice breaks through the silence like a sharp blade, slicing through your thoughts. You freeze, your hand still gripping the edge of the bench, heart pounding in your chest. 

"What did it feel like..." Minho starts, his tone casual, though there’s something beneath it that feels anything but. "Kissing them or whatever you've been doing with… Hyunjin. Seungmin, Chan maybe? God, you've kissed a lot… how did it feel?" 

Your blood runs cold. You snap your head to the side to meet his gaze, but there’s no malice there, no accusation—just that same detached curiosity. But you know better than to think Minho doesn’t mean something by it. 

"What the hell are you talking about?" you say, your voice rising slightly, though your throat feels tight, like the air in your lungs is trapped beneath the weight of his question. 

Minho shrugs, his eyes flicking to the roses once more as if he’s bored, but his words hang in the air like a storm waiting to break. "You think I don’t notice? I’m not an idiot." 

Your heart stutters in your chest, the blood rushing to your head. "What is this? You think I’m just some… some plaything for them?" 

He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even blink. "I never said that. But you’ve been making your rounds, haven’t you?" (I don't know what euphemisms to use so.. idk)

Your hands ball into fists at your sides, your chest tightening with frustration. "Why do you care?" You force the words out, though you can barely make sense of them yourself. "You don’t even talk to me unless you want something, so why the hell would you ask me something like that?" 

Minho’s eyes flick to you then, finally. And there’s that glimmer, that sharpness you know too well. His lips curl slightly, a sarcastic edge creeping into his smile. "What’s the matter? One person not good enough?" 

The question hits you harder than you’d like to admit, but you refuse to let him see it. Instead, you scoff and step back, pulling your hoodie tighter around your shoulders like it could somehow shield you from his probing gaze. 

"Don’t flatter yourself," you bite out. "I’m not some girl who’s out here playing games with all of you. You don’t get to accuse me of that." 

Minho watches you with a quiet intensity, the faintest flicker of amusement in his eyes, but his next words come out slow and deliberate. "You’re right. You’re not just playing games. You’re smart enough to play them and still act like nothing’s changed." 

Your breath catches in your throat, his words cutting deeper than you care to admit. You want to lash out, to tell him that none of it means anything, that it’s just a mess of people in this godforsaken place, but the truth is—you're not sure of anything anymore. 

"Stop talking like you know everything," you mutter, your voice trembling slightly as you turn away, your eyes falling on the roses, pretending to focus on something—anything—other than the sudden tension choking the air between you. "You don’t know what it’s like to care about someone here." 

"Care?" Minho repeats, his voice almost mocking. "I know more about that than you think." 

You glance at him, confused, but he’s already gone back to his roses, his hands moving with a calculated precision, as though nothing about the conversation fazed him. "You don’t seem like the type to care about anyone," you say under your breath, though you know he can hear it. 

He pauses, his shears held in mid-air, but he doesn’t look at you. "Maybe I’m not," he says quietly, his voice strangely cold. "But that doesn’t mean I can’t see how others are. And you... you're too reckless with yourself. Too careless with everyone around you." 

Your pulse quickens, and you bite your lip to stop it from trembling. "I’m not the one playing with fire," you shoot back, eyes flashing. "You’re the one who’s so damn scared of getting burned that you stay far enough away to avoid it."

Minho stands straight, his posture unyielding, and his gaze locks onto yours with a fierce intensity. "And maybe that's what keeps me from getting hurt, y/n," he says, his voice low and steady, every word carefully measured. "Maybe that’s the only way to survive in a place like this." 

Your throat tightens, and for a moment, you wonder if you’ve said something wrong. If you’ve pushed too far. But before you can process the thought, Minho turns away, walking down the rows of roses with a slow, deliberate pace. 

"You’re right about one thing, though," he calls over his shoulder without looking back. "You’re not a plaything. But you sure as hell make yourself one without realizing it." 

Your jaw clenches, your hands still balled into fists at your sides. You feel that same anger, that same frustration building inside you. You’re not sure why, but his words sting, and it’s not because of the insult—it's because something about them feels like the truth. 

You don’t respond right away, watching as he moves farther down the garden. Part of you wants to yell at him, demand that he explain himself. Another part wants to turn and leave, to walk away from this toxic little world you’ve found yourself in. 

But instead, you sit there, your gaze fixed on the distant figure of Minho among the roses, as your chest rises and falls with the tension between the two of you. The silence stretches on, thick and suffocating, and for the first time in a long time, you’re not sure what to feel anymore. 

The air is thick with the unsaid, and the tension between you and Minho hangs in the space like an electric charge, ready to snap. The roses sway gently in the wind, their white petals brushing against the stillness of the garden. You can feel the weight of his words lingering on your skin, a subtle pressure that’s hard to shake.

You don’t know when it happens, but suddenly, Minho is standing in front of you. His movements are fluid, almost predatory, as he steps into your personal space with an ease that leaves you breathless. The distance between you closes in an instant, and it’s as if time itself slows down, the world around you fading to a dull hum.

Minho doesn’t speak. His eyes are locked onto yours with that same unreadable intensity, the coolness in his gaze sharp enough to cut through you. You feel his breath, warm and steady, brushing against your face, but neither of you moves. The silence stretches on, taut like a wire, as if waiting for something—anything—to break it.

Then, without warning, he reaches up and brushes a lock of your hair behind your ear, his touch so light it almost feels like a phantom’s caress. You shiver, your heartbeat quickening, the tension in your chest winding tighter. And before you can react, he leans in.

The kiss comes like a wave crashing over you—sudden, overwhelming, and impossible to avoid. His lips are firm, pressing against yours with a force that’s almost bruising, but there’s something deeper in it too—something raw, something unspoken. The world blurs, and for a moment, all you can focus on is the heat of his mouth, the way his body presses closer to yours, his hands coming to rest at your waist, anchoring you in place.

You hesitate for only a split second, the shock of it all hitting you harder than you expected, but then you melt into it. Your fingers curl into his shirt, pulling him closer, the kiss deepening as your own body betrays you. Minho’s movements are controlled, measured, like everything he does, but there’s a force behind them now, an urgency that wasn’t there before.

It’s not gentle, and it’s not soft. It’s hungry, like there’s something he’s trying to prove—like he’s trying to take something from you, or maybe, in his own way, give you something you’ve been too afraid to ask for.

When the kiss finally breaks, you’re left breathless, your pulse racing, your lips tingling from the intensity of it. Minho’s forehead rests against yours for a moment, his eyes closed, his breath just as ragged as yours. The silence is deafening, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s a moment of understanding, or maybe just a brief truce in a war neither of you are ready to fight.

“Don’t pretend you didn’t want that,” he says softly, his voice low and laced with that same arrogance you’ve come to know so well. But there’s something else there too—something softer, buried beneath the layers of his usual indifference.

You’re still reeling from the kiss, the heat of it still burning through your chest, but you force yourself to focus on his words. “I didn’t ask for that,” you murmur, but it’s a weak response, even to your own ears.

Minho pulls back slightly, just enough to meet your gaze again. His eyes are darker now, the intensity of them making your heart race even faster. “You don’t have to ask for anything,” he says, the words low and deliberate, each one sinking into your skin like a brand. “You already have it.”

The implication is clear, and it leaves you speechless. You can feel your heartbeat in your throat, the aftermath of the kiss still buzzing through your veins. You want to say something—anything—but the words don’t come. Instead, you just stare at him, unsure of what this all means or what you’re supposed to do next.

Minho seems to notice your hesitation, and a small, almost imperceptible smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “You’ll figure it out,” he says, the confidence in his voice unwavering. “But don’t act like you didn’t want it too.”

Before you can respond, he turns away, walking down the row of roses without another word, leaving you standing there, your mind racing and your chest tight with confusion.

You’re not sure what just happened, but you know one thing for sure: things between you and Minho just shifted in a way that neither of you can ignore.

"I get why they want you so bad" he yelled over his shoulder as you stood up to leave "if I didn't know what self control was I'd be exactly like them... I already am, tch, you're just too much of an idiot to see that" he mutters to himself as he listens to your footsteps hurrying away

The soft hum of music in the background is the only noise in the gym besides the occasional clink of weights. The bright fluorescent lights flicker slightly overhead, casting a sterile glow over the large, open space. The air smells faintly of rubber and sweat, a mix of effort and determination hanging in the atmosphere. You sit on a bench by the wall, legs crossed and arms folded loosely, watching Changbin as he lifts weights across the room.

Changbin is in his usual workout attire: a simple black tank top that shows off his muscular frame, dark shorts, and sneakers.(idk didn't feel like making him gym in cult clothes okay?)

His muscles flex and ripple as he moves, the controlled, powerful movements of someone who knows exactly what they’re doing. He’s focused, his jaw set in that serious expression he adopts when he’s training. But there’s something comforting about the way he handles the weights—steady, precise, and never overexerting himself.

You’re not here to work out today. In fact, you haven’t been working out much at all lately. But watching Changbin in his element is oddly soothing. It’s like the chaos of the world around you fades for a few moments, and you can just breathe.

As he finishes his set and sets the dumbbells down with a satisfied grunt, Changbin wipes his brow with a towel and casually walks over to where you’re sitting. He looks at you with a grin that could almost be described as mischievous.

"How long you been staring over here?" he asks, his voice warm and teasing.

You arch an eyebrow and lean back against the bench, trying to play it cool. "Not staring, just... admiring. You’re pretty impressive, you know?"

Changbin chuckles, shaking his head as he sits down next to you on the bench. "Impressive? You’ve seen me do this a million times. I’m just trying to stay in shape, not audition for some fitness magazine cover."

You give him a skeptical look. "Yeah, sure. You look like you could be on the cover of something, but I guess you’re just being humble." You can’t help but roll your eyes as you say it, a playful tone to your words.

He lets out a low laugh. "You know, I don’t mind a little flattery, but let’s not get carried away. I’m just here to make sure you don’t fall asleep on me while I work out." He winks as he stands up and grabs a nearby water bottle, taking a sip and offering you one in return.

You shake your head, smirking. "I’m not falling asleep. Just... enjoying the view."

Changbin raises an eyebrow, clearly amused by your sarcasm. "Ah, I see. You’re just here for the eye candy, huh?" He laughs again, and it’s the kind of laugh that makes you feel like he’s actually enjoying the conversation, no matter how lighthearted it might be.

You snort and glance away, not entirely willing to admit how true that is. "Not my fault you're so damn distracting," you mutter.

Changbin takes a step back, wiping the sweat off his face, before his expression softens slightly. "So, what’s been going on with you lately? You’re usually more... active." His tone shifts, becoming more serious as he leans against a nearby weight rack, crossing his arms over his chest.

You look up at him, the playful banter from earlier fading just a little. "What do you mean?"

"I don’t know," he says, his eyes scanning your face. "You’re always running around, talking to everyone. You’ve been more quiet recently. And I get it, this place... it gets to everyone eventually. But if something’s bothering you, you know I’m here, right?"(idk lost my notes plus it's been a year cmon.. yall know each other now I think?)

You hesitate, unsure of how much you want to open up to him. Changbin is different. Unlike the others, he’s not constantly pulling at your strings or pushing you into uncomfortable corners.

He’s laid-back but attentive in a way that feels almost reassuring. You can see the sincerity in his eyes, the way he’s always been the steady one, the one who holds everything together in his own way.

"Just... some stuff," you say finally, your voice softer than you intended. "You know how it is. Everyone’s got their own little demons here."

Changbin nods slowly, his gaze never leaving you. "Yeah, I get it. But sometimes those demons don’t go away by ignoring them. And I don’t want you to be stuck with yours alone."

You tilt your head, watching him. Changbin has always been easygoing, but this side of him—this caring, almost protective side—is something you don’t always see. It makes him feel even more... approachable, even though you’re not sure how deep this connection goes.

"I’m fine," you say, almost to convince yourself more than him. "Just not really in the mood to work out or be around too many people."

Changbin seems to accept that without pushing further. He leans back against the weight rack, his muscles flexing with the movement, and lets out a relaxed sigh. "Fair enough. But if you want to talk, or if you need something to do to take your mind off things, I’m always down for some casual banter. Or I could take you through a workout," he says, offering a playful grin. "Nothing like sweating it out to clear your head."

You laugh, shaking your head. "I think I’ll pass on the workout, but I appreciate the offer. I’ll just keep watching the professional in action."

He smirks and flexes his bicep playfully. "You sure? I could be your personal trainer."

"I'm strong I bet I could carry you just fine on my back"

"I could break your back, not in a kinky way"

You roll your eyes, unable to hold back a small chuckle. "Yeah, I don’t need that much help. But maybe some advice wouldn’t hurt."

"Advice?" He leans forward, clearly interested. "You know I’m full of wisdom. Hit me with it."

You pause, glancing around the gym as you think of something that might spark conversation. "How do you handle everything in this place? I mean, I see you’re always calm, always laid back. But you’re not that perfect. How do you keep it together?"

Changbin doesn’t answer immediately. His eyes flick to the gym equipment, his posture shifting slightly as if he’s thinking. Then, with a small shrug, he says, "I guess I just... I try not to let it all consume me. This place is full of chaos, but it’s also full of moments that make it worth it. And sometimes, you just have to find those moments. Maybe it’s hanging out with people like you, or maybe it’s just pushing myself to lift more weight than I thought I could. It’s all about finding something to ground yourself."

The simplicity of his answer catches you off guard. You nod slowly, thinking about what he said. There’s a certain calm in his words, something steady, and you realize that it’s this steadiness that makes Changbin different from the others. While the rest of the people here are consumed by their issues, Changbin has figured out a way to maintain control. It’s not perfect, and it’s not always easy, but it works.

"I guess you’ve got a point," you say, smiling faintly. "Maybe I just need to find my own thing to ground me too."

Changbin grins at you, his usual confident and friendly demeanor back in full force. "Exactly. And who knows? Maybe you’ll start hitting the weights more after all."

You laugh softly at that, but this time, there’s a little less tension in your chest. For now, being here, with Changbin’s easy presence beside you, feels like enough.

The gym is quieter today. The usual hum of chatter between the others is absent, leaving just the echo of the weights clanging together, the sound of sneakers on the floor, and the rhythmic breath of effort. The flickering fluorescent lights overhead feel harsher today, casting stark shadows that feel heavier somehow. You’ve come to the gym to clear your head, but today it feels different, the air thicker, almost suffocating.

You sit on the bench again, your eyes following the movement of Changbin as he works out. There’s something off about him today—something beneath the surface that’s not quite right. His usual laid-back demeanor is gone, replaced by something sharper.

His movements are quicker, more forceful, as though he’s pushing himself beyond his limits, his jaw clenched tight. Every time he exhales, you hear the strain in his breath, and there’s an intensity in his eyes that you haven’t seen before. He’s not smiling today.

You try to ignore the sudden tension crawling along your spine, but it’s impossible not to notice the way his muscles tense with each lift, the veins in his arms standing out like ropes of tension. Something about the way he’s working out feels off-balance, like he’s trying to outrun something inside himself.

After a few more sets, Changbin drops the dumbbells onto the floor with a sharp thud, his chest rising and falling as he takes in deep breaths, eyes narrowing as he wipes the sweat from his forehead.

He turns toward you, and you can see it in his eyes—the restlessness, the agitation. There’s no hint of the usual playful energy. Instead, his gaze is focused, intense, and almost... obsessive.

He approaches you slowly, his movements deliberate, like every step is calculated, his demeanor darker than it’s ever been.

"You’ve been quiet today," he says, his voice low and almost growling, the usual warmth replaced with something colder, more unnerving. "What’s wrong with you? You’ve been staring at me this whole time, haven’t you?"

Your throat tightens at the sudden accusation. "What? No, I—" you start, but he cuts you off, his tone sharper now.

"Don’t lie," he snaps, his voice hard. "I’ve been watching you too. You’re different today. You’ve been staring at me like you’re waiting for something. What is it, huh? What do you want from me?"

The change in his demeanor throws you off guard. This isn’t the Changbin you’re used to—the calm, funny, and laid-back guy. This is someone else entirely.

His presence feels overwhelming, like he’s consuming the space around you, filling it with something darker and more intense than you can process. His gaze is piercing, unblinking, and you can’t look away even if you wanted to.

"I wasn’t staring," you say, but it’s a weak defense. His eyes never leave you as he steps closer, the air between you heavy and charged.

"You’re not telling me the truth." His voice drops even lower, and you can feel the tension crackling in the air. "You know, I’m not stupid. I know when people are lying to me. So, what is it? Are you afraid of me? Or are you... intrigued?"

Your pulse quickens, and you try to shift, but it feels like you’re trapped under his gaze. His expression is unreadable, his jaw tight, like he’s holding something back, something dangerous.

"I’m not afraid of you," you mutter, trying to gather your composure. "But you’re acting weird, Changbin. What’s going on with you?"

His lips curl into a thin, tight smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. "Weird? Maybe I’m just tired of pretending like everything is fine. Tired of this damn place, tired of all of you walking around like nothing matters. You think you’re the only one who’s struggling? You think I don’t notice?"

He grabs the edge of the bench where you’re sitting, his grip tight, the muscles in his forearm flexing, and his face inches from yours. You can feel the heat radiating off his body, and there’s something terrifyingly possessive in the way he’s holding on to the moment, as if you’re the only thing in the room that matters.

"I’ve been watching you too, you know," he says, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Not just today, but every day. You think you can keep your distance from me? You think you’re just some little observer? I know the way you look at me. The way you want something more. But you don’t get to have it. Not until I say so."

You freeze, the words hitting you harder than you’d expected. There’s an obsessive undertone in his voice now, something dangerous and possessive. Your heart races, and you try to pull away, but his hand tightens on the bench, and you feel the heat of his body press closer. You’ve never seen him like this—so direct, so... hungry for control.

"Changbin, this isn’t you," you say, trying to keep your voice steady, but it cracks despite your best effort. "You need to calm down. You’re freaking me out."

He smirks, but it’s colder now, almost cruel. "You think I’m freaking you out? You think I don’t know what’s going on in your head? I see it. I see the way you look at me. Don’t try to act like you’re better than me. I know you want something. I know you’ve been waiting for me to make a move. And now, here I am."

The weight of his words lands on you like a heavy blow. You’re not sure if you should be scared or angry or something else entirely. His intensity is suffocating, and yet, there’s a part of you that’s drawn to it, unsure of how to react to this more... obsessive side of him. This side that feels like it could easily tip over into something darker.

"You’re not getting it," you say, your voice shaking. "I’m not some toy for you to play with."

His eyes narrow, and for a moment, you think he might snap, but then, his expression shifts, and the darkness in his eyes is replaced by something else—something just as dangerous, but colder, more calculating.

"I never said you were a toy," he replies, his voice low and dangerous. "But you’re not as innocent as you think. And neither am I. Don’t pretend like you’re not playing a game too."

Before you can respond, he straightens up, walking away with the same controlled, purposeful movements, leaving you sitting there, heart pounding, trying to process everything that just happened. His presence lingers in the air, heavy and suffocating, and you can’t shake the feeling that things have just shifted between the two of you.

The dim light in Changbin's room flickers, casting long shadows that stretch across the walls like dark, creeping tendrils. The space feels suffocating, despite its size—cluttered with weights, workout equipment, and a few stray clothes.

The faint scent of sweat lingers in the air, a stark contrast to the heavy, tense silence that now fills the room. Changbin sits on the floor, his back against the bed, knees drawn tightly to his chest, hands clutching at the fabric of his shirt as if trying to hold himself together.

Chan leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, his expression unreadable as he watches his friend. He’s calm, almost amused, his gaze never leaving Changbin as he curls in on himself, his breathing shallow, erratic. Chan knows this feeling too well—this quiet unraveling. But where others might feel pity, Chan feels something else. Something darker.

"Need your pills, huh?" Chan's voice breaks the silence, smooth and casual, as if the situation is nothing more than an inconvenience, a minor blip in the day. He jingles the bottle of pills in his hand, the sound sharp in the quiet room.

Changbin doesn’t answer at first. His eyes are closed tightly, his body shuddering with the effort of keeping control. The pills, the only thing that can ease the storm in his head, feel out of reach. He can hear them—hear Chan’s words—but they seem so distant, like they’re coming from somewhere far, far away.

"Please," Changbin whispers, barely audible, his voice hoarse. "I need them."

Chan takes a slow step forward, the bottle still jingling in his hand. He watches Changbin with a calculating gaze, one eyebrow arched, as if considering something. His lips curl into a small, almost imperceptible smile as he crouches down to Changbin’s level, the bottle just within reach but not quite close enough.

"You know, you could take them," Chan begins, his tone smooth, almost mocking. "But what's the fun in that? It's so much more... satisfying when you do it the hard way. When you let it eat at you. When you make yourself feel like you deserve something better than this."

Changbin’s head snaps up, his eyes wide, filled with confusion and desperation. He doesn't understand. He doesn’t want to understand. His hands tremble, his fingers digging into his own skin as he fights to keep his mind from shattering, he doesn't want to end up like 009 though.

"Please," he repeats, more forcefully now, his voice cracking. "I need to make it stop. Just give me the pills."

But Chan just tilts his head, watching him with an almost clinical interest. "You think the pills are going to fix you? Make all this go away? They won’t. You’re still gonna be the same guy. You’ll still be weak. You’ll still be... just the nice guy who never takes what he wants."

Changbin’s breath catches in his throat, the words sinking in. "I... I’m not weak."

Chan’s smile widens slightly, the flicker of amusement in his eyes never fading. "No? Then why are you letting yourself suffer? Why are you sitting there, waiting for something outside of yourself to change? Why don’t you take control for once? You know, right? She... she’s one of the few people who could make you feel like you’re not just floating, lost in all this nonsense."

At the mention of your name, Changbin's mind latches onto it, a faint flicker of clarity cutting through the haze of his thoughts. Y/n, The one person who seems to exist outside of this fucked-up place, the one who makes his chest tighten whenever he sees her. The one person who’s always... been different, somehow.

"Y/N?" Changbin whispers, his voice barely audible as he looks up at Chan. "She’s... she’s not like us."

Chan laughs softly, the sound dark and edged with something almost dangerous. "Oh, but she is. She’s already here, isn’t she? Already tangled up in all of this. You think she’s any different from you or me? No. She’s already ours. She just doesn’t know it yet."

Changbin’s brow furrows in confusion. His hands grip the edges of the bed tighter, his knuckles going white as he tries to process the words. "What do you mean?"

"She's ours, Changbin." Chan’s voice drops lower now, almost a growl, a hint of possessiveness creeping into his tone. "She’s stuck here, just like you. Just like me. No matter how much she wants to pretend, she’ll never get out. This place? This is her life now. And if you’re smart, you’ll stop pretending like she’s a choice. She’s not. She’s already... in it."

Chan steps closer, placing the bottle of pills just in front of Changbin, the rattling sound of the bottle echoing in the stillness. He doesn’t give it to him yet, just lets the sound of the pills linger in the air, a reminder of what could be so easily in reach if Changbin would only stop fighting it.

"Why waste time being the nice guy?" Chan continues, crouching down to Changbin’s level, the words dripping with malice and something darker—something almost hypnotic.

"Why let her wander around like she’s not yours to claim? You could have her. You could take her. Just stop pretending like you're above it. She's yours to keep, and the sooner you realize that, the better."

Changbin’s hands are shaking now, but not from fear. His eyes are wide, frantic. The words twist in his mind, around his skull like a vice. He can’t tell if it’s the delusions or the reality of the situation that’s making him feel like he’s suffocating, but he can’t breathe. His thoughts spiral, caught in the storm of his own mind.

"Y/N... she’s... mine?" Changbin whispers, as if testing the words on his tongue.

Chan leans in closer, his breath hot against Changbin’s ear, sending a shiver down his spine. "Of course she is. She’s just too blind to see it. But you can show her. You can make her see, just like you’ve made yourself see. Take control. Stop being weak. You deserve this, Changbin. You deserve her. Now, take the pills. Take what’s yours."

The words hit Changbin like a physical blow, his mind racing, spinning with the idea of Y/N—his. A possessive, greedy feeling rises inside him, and for a moment, it feels like the world could just snap into place if he takes that final step. All the confusion, the chaos in his mind, could just... stop.

He reaches for the bottle, his hands trembling as he finally takes it. But before he opens it, Chan’s voice rings out one more time, soft and almost playful, like a whisper in the dark.

"Good boy," Chan murmurs, his smile curling into something darker. "Now, we’ll see how this all plays out. You’ll see. You’ll finally see"

The room falls silent again, the tension thick as Changbin holds the pills in his hands, caught between the push of his own desires and the suffocating grip of his delusions. The weight of Chan’s words hangs heavy in the air, a seed planted in his mind, ready to grow.

Bang Chan was a manipulative bastard who knew exactly what to do, when to do it and how to do it, they were all still in that hellhole because of him , if any if them showed any signs of getting better he'd do something about it and the next day they were back in Tzuyangs infirmary plugged into several machines for attempted suicide and back to his grasp they go.

It was either that or ending up like 009... none of them wanted to end up like that. The place scared them deeply but the fear they all felt was nothing compared to the fear they all felt whenever Bang Chan switched into Chris Banhg.

Bang Chan was a  manipulative bastard but Chris was worse... God he was so much worse. And  they all had to watch as chris slowly turned little schizophrenic Jeongin into a little me who didn't know what was real or not.

And now... he wanted them to want you just as much as he wanted you , it had now gotten to the point where they didn't know if they actually wanted you or wanted you because Chris wanted them to

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11613k words , hope that makes up for losing chapters and not updating

And remember

Live laugh love manipulative bastards cause why not?