---
Rain poured like needles from the night sky, slicing the city into fractured reflections of neon and shadows. The alley reeked of piss, rot, and desperation—a perfect stage for dreams to die quietly.
Kim Jihoon stood at the edge of it, his hoodie soaked through, knuckles trembling as he clutched a sealed envelope to his chest. He was twenty-one and running on borrowed time. The last of his brother's medicine was on the table at home, and the rent notice had turned red a week ago. No auditions. No callbacks. No hope.
But tonight, he wasn't here to beg for scraps.
He was here to sell everything he had left.
The club entrance was hidden behind rusted iron gates, guarded by two suited men who barely looked human in their stillness. Jihoon swallowed his pride—and his fear—and stepped forward.
"Invitation?" one of them asked, voice like gravel.
Jihoon held out the envelope.
The man opened it, scanned the content, and nodded. "Follow me."
They led him through a narrow hallway that pulsed with bass from somewhere deep underground. Past velvet curtains and mirrors that didn't quite reflect the truth. Everything here glinted—too sharp, too rich, too dangerous.
The moment he stepped into the VIP lounge, he felt it.
Power.
It sat in the corner booth like a king—legs crossed, black suit immaculate, dark eyes gleaming under soft golden light. Kang Ryu.
Jihoon's heart slammed against his ribs. The man looked like sin carved into flesh.
"Come," Ryu said, voice low and commanding.
Jihoon moved.
Every step toward that booth felt like walking into a lion's den, but Jihoon kept his chin high. He'd come this far. He wasn't leaving without a deal.
Ryu's gaze slid down his body, slow, assessing. "You're prettier in person."
Jihoon forced a smile. "I'm not here to be pretty. I'm here to work."
Ryu's mouth curved. "Work. That's what they all say at first."
He motioned, and a folder slid across the table toward Jihoon. Thick, heavy. A contract.
Jihoon sat, fingers trembling as he opened it.
Page after page of legal bindings, stipulations, clauses that read like a cage with golden bars. Exclusive rights. NDA. Collared residence. Body access.
He looked up, eyes narrowing. "You want to own me."
Ryu didn't flinch. "I want to mold you into something that sells. Beauty is nothing without control."
"And if I say no?"
Ryu leaned forward. His scent—dark amber and danger—hit Jihoon like a blow. "Then you can go back to slums, watch your brother cough blood, and wait tables until you burn out."
Jihoon clenched his jaw. "Why me?"
"Because," Ryu said, reaching out to tuck a damp strand of hair behind Jihoon's ear, "you're not just a pretty face, Jihoon. You're a Rare."
Jihoon's blood froze.
No one was supposed to know. His whole life was a lie wrapped in suppressants and silence.
"I can smell it on you," Ryu whispered. "You burn like something forbidden."
Jihoon stood abruptly. "This wasn't part of the deal."
"It is now."
The collar hit the table with a soft clink—black leather, silver clasp.
Jihoon stared at it.
"Put it on," Ryu said.
"No."
"Then leave. But don't expect a second offer."
Jihoon looked at the folder, at the collar, at the man who held his future in one elegant hand.
Then he thought of his brother.
Hands shaking, he picked up the collar.
It clicked shut around his throat with finality.
Ryu's smile turned sharp. "Good boy."
---
Three weeks later.
The flashbulbs never stopped.
Jihoon smiled on cue, spoke when prompted, and bowed at just the right angle. The media ate him up—mysterious new talent under Kang Entertainment's wing. His face was on screens, magazines, gossip blogs. But no one knew what it cost.
Every night, he returned to the penthouse. And every night, he knelt before Ryu.
He'd learned the rules. How to speak. How to beg. How to breathe only when given permission.
And how not to cry.
But tonight, something felt wrong.
The scent in the air was thicker. Jihoon's body buzzed with strange heat. He stumbled in the hallway, gripping the wall.
Suppressants. He hadn't missed a dose. Had he?
He barely made it to his room before collapsing onto the bed, sweat drenching his back.
His body throbbed. His mind screamed. Heat.
The door opened behind him.
Ryu's silhouette filled the space, eyes burning like coals. "You're burning."
Jihoon gasped, "I didn't… mean to…"
Ryu's steps were slow, deliberate.
"Do you want me?" He ask while brushing his hands our jihoon cheek's.
Jihoon whimpered, caught between need and fear.
"Say it," Ryu said, voice molten.
Jihoon opened his mouth—
—and the world turned black.
---
He woke up bound in silk sheets, heat haze gone, body sore and clean.
Alone.
Beside him, a single note in Ryu's handwriting:
"You survived your first cycle. Impressive. Try not to fall in love."
Later At Night:
Ryu stood alone in the surveillance room, watching the footage from Jihoon's heat.
But his eyes weren't on the trembling boy writhing in silken sheets.
They were on the pulse of light—a strange, golden flicker—emanating from Jihoon's skin when he screamed into the mattress, unaware the cameras caught it. It had lasted only seconds, but it burned through the darkness like divine fire.
Ryu exhaled slowly, lips tightening.
"Impossible," he murmured.
Second genders were already dangerous—outlawed, monitored, erased. But this?
This was something else entirely.
A whisper of power lost to history. Something ancient. Something royal.
He zoomed in, replaying the moment in slow motion. Jihoon's eyes had glowed, not with heat, not with lust—but with power. Raw. Wild. Unawakened.
Ryu's fingers curled.
So... the boy didn't even know what he was.
Yet.
Behind him, his assistant hesitated. "Should we report it to the Ministry, sir?"
Ryu turned, his expression ice-cold. "No."
"But if he's a—"
"If anyone finds out what he really is, they'll destroy him." His voice dropped to a growl. "He's mine, He's , "him ".
His gaze returned to the screen, to the boy sleeping in oblivious innocence.
"Let's see how long he can burn… before he burns us all."
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