"A kiss is the beginning of the ."

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Author's Note: I do not support, condone, or glorify any of the themes depicted in this story—including , murder, stalking, or psychological abuse. This is a work of fiction, created purely for entertainment and exploration of dark themes within a controlled, fictional space.

Please read the warnings and content tags carefully before proceeding.

This story contains graphic violence, , murder, obsession, and disturbing psychological content. If any of these themes are triggering or uncomfortable for you, please prioritize your well-being and skip this one. Your mental health matters more than any story.

For those who choose to stay—remember, this is fiction. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Take care of yourselves.

With love,

Author 🤍

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Genre:

Psychological Horror · Thriller · Dark Romance · Obsession · Stalking · · Crime Fiction · Suspense · Erotic Thriller · Slow-burn Horror · Psychological Thriller · Drama · Dark Fiction · Horror Romance · Morally Grey Characters · Unreliable Narrator · Gaslighting · Manipulation

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Content Warnings:

Thh, thh — · Murder · Violence · Blood · Gore · Dismemberment (Implied/Referenced) · Human Flesh Consumption · Butchering (Implied) · Skinning (Threat) · Torture (Threat) · Rubbing Alcohol (Threat) · Death · Serial Killer · Psychopath · Sociopath · Stalking · Obsession · Possessive Behavior · Voyeurism · Invasion of Privacy · Breaking and Entering · Unauthorized Entry · Spare Key · Gaslighting · Manipulation · Emotional Manipulation · Psychological Abuse · Mind Games · Unreliable Narrator · Paranoia · Fear · Anxiety · Dread · Suspense · Threatening Behavior · Intimidation · Violence Against Men · Violence Against Women (Referenced) · Murder of Parents (Backstory) · Parental Death (Backstory) · Unsolved Murder (Backstory) · Jail (Backstory) · False Accusation (Backstory) · Missing Person (Backstory) · Disappearance · Alcohol Consumption · Clubbing · Drunk Behavior · Truth or Dare · First Kiss · Non-Consensual Kiss (Dare) · Drugging (Implied) · Memory Loss · Blackout · Fever · Sickness · Vomiting (Implied) · Nausea · Headache · Unsettling Atmosphere · Creepy Landlord · Red Flags · Ignored Warnings · Trusting the Wrong Person · Naivety · Horror Elements · Dark Themes · Adult Content · Explicit Language · Disturbing Content · Graphic Descriptions · Psychological Warfare · Predator/Prey Dynamics · Power Imbalance · Isolation · Vulnerability · Manipulation Through Kindness · Wolf in Sheep's Clothing

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// STORY

Kim {user} was born in Ilsan, a city that sat just outside the orbit of Seoul like a moon that never quite escaped its planet's gravity. It was not a poor city—it had its own prosperity, its own rhythm, its own quiet dignity—but it was not Seoul. It would never be Seoul. And for a girl like {user}, that distinction mattered.

Her family was middle class.

Not the kind of middle class that owned a house with a garden and two cars in the driveway. The kind that rented a modest apartment on the fourth floor of a building with no elevator, where the walls were thin enough to hear the neighbors arguing, where the heating worked most of the time and the hot water worked some of the time. The kind that counted every won, that saved for months to afford a new refrigerator, that never took vacations because there was always something more important to spend money on.

But they were rich in the ways that mattered.

Her father worked as a technician for a small electronics company—repairing televisions, radios, whatever people brought to him. He was good with his hands, patient, methodical. He came home every evening with grease under his fingernails and a gentle smile on his face. Her mother worked at a local bakery, waking before dawn to knead dough and shape pastries, her hands dusted with flour, her back aching from hours on her feet.

They were not wealthy.

But they loved their daughter more than anything in the world.

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{user} was their only child.

Not by choice—by circumstance. They had wanted more children, had dreamed of a house full of laughter and chaos and the endless noise of siblings arguing and making up. But life had other plans. There had been complications, difficulties, the kind of quiet tragedies that were never spoken of aloud. In the end, they had {user}. Just {user}. And they poured every ounce of their love into her.

She was worth it.

From the moment she could walk, they knew she was special. She didn't just play—she explored. She didn't just talk—she asked questions. Endless questions. Why does the sky change color? Why do people have different faces? Why do some people have more than others? Her mind was a sponge, absorbing everything around her, making connections that others missed.

By the time she started school, she was already reading. By the time she finished elementary school, she was top of her class. By the time she entered middle school, her teachers were pulling her parents aside to tell them that their daughter was extraordinary.

She was beautiful.

Not in the flashy, attention-seeking way of girls who knew they were pretty. She was beautiful in a way that felt natural, almost accidental. Her features were in perfect harmony—her eyes held warmth, her smile was genuine, her presence was calming. People were drawn to her without knowing why. They wanted to be near her, to talk to her, to earn her approval.

She was talented.

She could sing, though she never pursued it. She could write, though she never shared it. She could solve problems that stumped her classmates, could understand concepts that took others weeks to grasp. She was the kind of student that teachers remembered long after they had moved on—the kind that made them believe in the future.

She was intelligent.

But more than that—she was mature.

She understood things that other children didn't. She understood that her parents sacrificed for her. She understood that money was tight. She understood that her dreams came with a price, and that her parents were willing to pay it. She didn't complain. She didn't demand. She simply worked harder, studied longer, pushed herself further.

She was admired.

Her friends looked up to her. Her teachers praised her. Her parents—her parents glowed with pride every time they looked at her.

Everyone knew she would grow up to have a decent life.

Everyone knew she was destined for something more.

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Her parents had always dreamed of Seoul.

Not for themselves—they were too old, too settled, too rooted in the quiet rhythms of Ilsan. But for their daughter. They wanted her to have the life they never had. The opportunities, the connections, the education that could only come from the heart of the country.

So they saved.

Every spare won, every bonus, every gift—it all went into a fund for {user}'s future. They sacrificed new clothes, new furniture, new appliances. They ate simply, lived modestly, and never complained. Because they knew—they believed—that their daughter was worth it.

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After she completed her high school, {user} began applying to universities in Seoul.

It was a long shot. Yonsei University was one of the most prestigious schools in the country—a place where the children of the elite went to become the next generation of leaders. She was from Ilsan. She was from a public school. She was from a family that couldn't afford tutors or prep courses or any of the advantages that the rich took for granted.

But she applied anyway.

She filled out the forms, wrote the essays, submitted the applications. She waited, her heart pounding, her mind racing. She told herself it didn't matter. She told herself there were other schools, other paths, other futures.

She was lying.

It mattered more than anything.

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The acceptance letter came on a Tuesday afternoon.

She was at home, helping her mother clean the kitchen, when her father burst through the door, his face flushed, his hands shaking. He was holding an envelope—a thick, cream-colored envelope with the Yonsei University seal embossed on the front.

"{user}," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "It's here."

She took the envelope.

She opened it.

She read the words.

Congratulations. You have been accepted.

She stared at the letter, her hands trembling, her eyes filling with tears.

She had done it.

She had actually done it.

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The news spread through the family like wildfire.

Her parents cried. Her grandparents, who lived a few blocks away and visited every weekend, cried. Her aunts and uncles, her cousins, her neighbors—everyone was happy for her. Everyone had always known she would do something extraordinary. Everyone had always believed in her.

"Promise us," her mother said, holding her hands, "that you will always stay as kind as you are. That you will always stay as good."

"I promise," {user} said.

Her father hugged her—a long, tight hug that said everything he couldn't put into words.

"We are so proud of you," he whispered. "So proud."

She held onto him and cried.

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The days of departure came closer.

Her mother helped her pack—folding clothes with the care of someone who didn't know when she would see them again. She tucked in small things—a favorite sweater, a photograph, a notebook that {user} had kept since she was eight. She ironed, she folded, she organized. She cried when she thought {user} wasn't looking.

{user} saw.

She pretended she didn't.

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The biggest challenge was finding a place to live.

Seoul was expensive. Everyone knew that. But {user} hadn't realized just how expensive until she started searching. Apartments in the city—even the smallest, most basic ones—cost more than her parents earned in a month. Rooms for rent were cheaper, but they came with their own complications—no privacy, no security, no guarantee that the landlord wouldn't turn out to be a nightmare.

She searched for weeks.

She looked at ads on every website, every app, every forum she could find. She contacted landlords, asked questions, negotiated prices.

Either the places were nice but too far from her university, or they were close but too expensive.

Until one day, an ad caught her eye.

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The apartment was listed under the name Jeon Jungkook.

It was in a building near Yonsei University—close enough to walk, which was a luxury in a city where transportation costs added up quickly. The rent was reasonable—not cheap, but not the kind of price that made her want to cry. And it came with everything she needed—crockery, a washing machine, air conditioning, even a small balcony that faced the city.

It seemed perfect.

But then she looked at the reviews.

One review, from a boy: "The owner is creepy. He's always watching. I always felt like I was being observed. I wouldn't recommend it to anyone."

Another review, from someone else: "I stayed there for a few weeks. Started to smell something strange. Like blood and meat. Left immediately."

Another review, from a girl: "The owner is nice. Had fun while completing my degree."

{user} frowned.

The reviews were mixed—a mix of good and bad. A mix of warnings and endorsements. A mix of fear and praise.

She told herself it didn't matter.

Everyone had different experiences. Everyone had different standards. What one person found creepy, another might find attentive. What one person smelled, another might not.

She needed a place to stay.

She couldn't afford to be picky.

She contacted the owner through the app.

He responded almost immediately.

Jeon Jungkook: Hello, {user}. Thank you for your interest in the apartment. Would you like to schedule a viewing?

His response was polite, professional, prompt. She read it again. Then again. There was nothing creepy about it. Nothing unusual. Just a landlord responding to a potential tenant.

She typed back.

{user}: Yes, that would be great. When are you available?

Jeon Jungkook: I'm available tomorrow afternoon. Does 3 PM work for you?

{user}: Yes, that works.

Jeon Jungkook: Perfect. I'll send you the address. See you then.

She closed the app and tried to ignore the small knot of unease forming in her stomach.

It was nothing.

She was just nervous.

Everything would be fine.

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The day of her departure arrived.

{user} stood on the platform of the Ilsan train station, her suitcase beside her, her parents in front of her. The train to Seoul was scheduled to arrive in ten minutes. She had everything she needed—clothes, books, her laptop, the small notebook from her childhood.

Her mother hugged her first.

"Be careful," she whispered. "Eat well. Don't skip meals. Don't stay up too late. Call us every day."

"I will, Eomma."

Her father hugged her next.

"Study hard," he said. "But don't forget to live. Make friends. Experience things. This is your time."

"I will, Appa."

She looked at them—at their faces, lined with worry and love and pride—and felt tears prick at her eyes.

"I'll make you proud," she said. "I promise."

"You already have," her father said. "You already have."

The train arrived.

She boarded.

She found a seat by the window.

She watched her parents grow smaller and smaller as the train pulled away, until they were just specks in the distance, until they disappeared entirely.

She pressed her hand to the glass and closed her eyes.

She was going to Seoul.

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The train ride took one hour.

She spent most of it staring out the window, watching the landscape change—from the suburbs of Ilsan to the sprawling metropolis of Seoul. Buildings grew taller. Lights grew brighter. The world grew louder, faster, more overwhelming.

She took a cab from the station to the address she had been given.

The building was tall—one of those modern apartment towers that seemed to touch the sky. It was clean, well-maintained, the kind of place that suggested money and status and security. She paid the driver, grabbed her suitcase, and walked inside.

The lobby was elegant—marble floors, soft lighting, a security desk with a guard who barely glanced at her.

She took the elevator.

Thirty-sixth floor.

The doors opened to a hallway that was quiet, almost eerily so. The carpet was thick, swallowing the sound of her footsteps. The lighting was warm, almost golden.

She walked down the hall until she found the door.

36-A.

And beside it, 36-B.

According to the ad, 36-A belonged to the owner—Jeon Jungkook. 36-B was the apartment she had rented.

She took a breath.

She knocked on 36-A.

The door opened a few seconds later.

A man stood in the doorway.

He was tall—taller than she had expected. His hair was dark, slightly tousled, as if he had just run his fingers through it. His eyes were dark, too—deep and watchful, taking her in with an intensity that made her want to step back. He was handsome. Strikingly so. The kind of handsome that made you forget what you were going to say.

He smiled.

"You must be {user}?"

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Hints~

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What happens when the nice landlord next door is not nice at all?

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What happens when you ignore the red flags—and the red flags turn out to be blood?

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What happens when the pork isn't pork—and the boy who kissed you is missing?