Chapter 50- N-Not This~?!

Min-jung’s hand trembled as she fumbled with her apartment key, her other hand pressing against her forehead like she could physically push away the pounding migraine that’d been drilling into her skull for the past three hours.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

The metal key scraped against the lock twice before finally sliding in. Her vision was blurry—partially from exhaustion, partially from the gaming zone’s fluorescent lights that’d been burning her retinas all goddamn night.

She’d stayed there. On purpose. Playing stupid mobile games and watching other people stream League until her phone battery died twice and the clerk started giving her concerned looks.

Because going home meant dealing with... ’that’.

The memory made her stomach clench. That dream—no, that ’thing’—where some impossibly hot guy with a body like a Greek god had buried his face between her legs and made her scream so loud her throat still felt raw.

Had to be a dream. Had to be.

Except when she’d woken up yesterday morning, her pussy had been sore. Actually sore. And her sheets smelled like... like...

Min-jung shook her head violently, immediately regretting it when fresh pain spiked through her temples.

Stop. Don’t think about it.

She’d tried to rationalize it. Blamed it on the posters covering her walls—those R-18 reference images of naked men she used for her webtoon work. Maybe they’d attracted something. Some kind of sex demon or incubus or whatever the hell existed in folklore.

So she’d torn them down. All of them. Ripped them off the walls in a panic-fueled frenzy until her fingers bled from paper cuts and the glue was so tough she’d given up halfway through, leaving torn edges still stuck to the paint.

Then she’d run. Grabbed her hoodie, shoved her feet into her sneakers, and bolted to the 24-hour gaming zone like a scared rabbit.

But now...

Now she was so fucking tired she could barely stand. Her head felt like it was splitting open. Her eyes burned. And more than anything, she just wanted to collapse on her bed and sleep for three days straight.

The key finally turned. The lock clicked. Min-jung pushed the door open—

—and froze.

The smell hit her first.

Food.

Not just any food. Home-cooked food. The rich, savory scent of soy sauce and garlic, sesame oil and grilled meat. The kind of smell that only came from someone actually ’cooking’, not reheating instant ramen or microwaving convenience store bento boxes.

Her tiny apartment had never smelled like this. Ever.

Min-jung’s exhausted brain struggled to process what her nose was telling her, even as her eyes started taking in the scene before her.

Her cramped living space—usually dark except for the glow of her computer monitors—was lit. The small kitchen area she barely used was... occupied. There was actual steam rising from pots on the stove.

And standing there, casual as fuck, wearing nothing but black pants and an unbuttoned shirt that showed off a torso that belonged in a museum...

Was ’him’.

The guy from her dream.

Purple eyes. Dark hair falling perfectly across his forehead. That face that looked like some manhwa artist’s wettest fantasy brought to life.

He turned toward the door, spatula in one hand, and his lips curved into a smile that made Min-jung’s knees go weak for entirely different reasons than exhaustion.

"Welcome home," he said, his voice doing that thing—that stupid sexy thing that’d made her pussy clench even in her supposed dream.

Min-jung’s mouth opened. Closed. No words came out.

Her eyes darted past him, desperately trying to make sense of what the ’fuck’ was happening, and that’s when she saw—

’Her’.

A woman. Late forties, maybe. Thick-bodied in that soft, maternal way. Wearing nothing but an apron.

Just. An. Apron.

The kind with a cute cartoon character on the front that Min-jung had bought as a joke and never actually used. The strings tied around the woman’s waist, covering her front—barely—but leaving her sides completely exposed. Her bare back. Her naked ass.

And on her face...

Min-jung’s breath caught.

A mask. One of her cosplay masks. The decorative one she’d bought for a character reference and left on her bookshelf.

The woman’s hand was pressed against it, holding it in place like she was trying to hide. Her other hand clutched at the apron strings, knuckles white.

Their eyes met through the mask’s eye holes.

Dark eyes. Familiar in a way that made Min-jung’s stomach drop even though she couldn’t place why.

The woman’s entire body was trembling.

"Wha—" Min-jung started.

And then the world tilted.

Her vision went white at the edges, narrowing to a tunnel. The migraine that’d been pounding in her skull suddenly felt like an ice pick driving directly into her brain. Her knees buckled.

She was falling—

—but she didn’t hit the ground.

Strong arms caught her mid-air, one sliding under her knees, the other supporting her back. She was lifted effortlessly, her body cradled against a chest that was way too warm, way too solid to be a hallucination.

Min-jung’s head lolled against his shoulder, her consciousness flickering like a dying lightbulb.

The last thing she registered before everything went dark was his scent. That same scent from her "dream." Masculine and overwhelming and impossible to forget.

’Fuck.’

’’’

"Min-jung?! MIN-JUNG?!"

Hana’s voice cracked as she lunged forward, the apron strings digging into her waist as she moved. Her hands reached out instinctively—a mother’s reflex to check if her child was breathing—but Raven was already moving.

He turned smoothly, carrying the unconscious girl toward the bed in the corner.

Hana’s heart was hammering so hard she thought it might explode out of her chest. Her daughter. Her baby girl. The one she hadn’t seen in over a year. The one who’d left home promising never to return.

’Here’.

Unconscious in the arms of the man who’d been fucking Hana’s brains out for the past twelve hours.

"Is she okay?!" Hana gasped, her voice muffled behind the mask as she followed him. "What happened to her? Why did she—"

"She’s fine," Raven said calmly, laying Min-jung down on the bed with surprising gentleness. "Just exhausted. Probably hasn’t slept in two days."

He adjusted her position, moving her arms so they rested naturally at her sides. Min-jung was wearing an oversized grey hoodie that swallowed her frame, and baggy sweatpants that looked like she’d grabbed them in the dark. Her hair was a mess, tangled and unwashed. Dark circles under her eyes.

She looked... miserable.

Hana’s chest tightened painfully.

’My baby...’

"This..." Hana’s voice came out strangled as her eyes swept across the room, really ’seeing’ it for the first time. "This is... her apartment?"

The torn posters. The scattered art supplies. The multiple monitors on the cluttered desk. The drawings—those ’explicit’ drawings—still taped to the walls, some ripped, some intact.

Evidence of her daughter’s life. A life Hana knew nothing about.

"Looks like it," Raven said, stepping back from the bed.

"But—but—" Hana’s hands flew to her face, pressing against the mask. Her mind was racing, trying to process everything at once and failing spectacularly. "She said she was an artist! She said she was doing romance work! I thought—I thought she meant—"

Her eyes landed on one of the drawings still intact on the wall. A woman bent over, naked, a man’s cock buried deep inside her from behind. Detailed. Graphic. Professional-quality pornography.

"Oh god," Hana whispered, her voice breaking. "Oh god, no. Not this. Not... not ’this’."