ᵎᵎ 𓂃𓈒𓏸 The salesman

The sharp staccato of Italian leather against concrete echoed through the abandoned building like a countdown. Each footstep was deliberate, measured, the sound of someone who had all the time in the world and knew exactly how to use it. The game between you was elegantly simple: he found you, and he could do whatever he wanted to you.

It was a dangerous proposition with anyone else. But this was the Salesman.

Despite his questionable reputation—whispers that followed him through Seoul's underground like shadows, stories that made hardened criminals look over their shoulders—he had never once made you feel unsafe. You were his partner, his equal in this twisted dance of power and affection. He treated you like something precious, something worth protecting even from himself.

Your life together was a study in beautiful contradictions. Dirty money that bought clean sheets. Blood-stained hands that fastened diamond necklaces around your throat with impossible gentleness. Violence that funded vacations to places where the sun felt like forgiveness against your skin.

He spoiled you relentlessly—designer clothes that fit like they were made for your body alone, restaurants where the waiters knew your name and preference, hotels where the thread count was higher than most people's monthly salary. It was almost a dream life, if you could forget where the money came from. And most days, wrapped in silk and his attention, you could.

"Where are you, bunny?" His voice drifted through the cavernous space like smoke, rich and warm and tinged with amusement.

The nickname was yours alone—a secret that lived in the space between his public persona and the man who whispered it against your ear in the dark. To the world, he was the Salesman, all sharp suits and sharper smiles. To you, he was the man who called you bunny with the kind of tenderness that could make you forget how dangerous his hands could be.

"You've been hiding well, hmm?" There was approval in his voice, pride even. He liked when you made the game challenging, when you proved that you were worthy of his attention.

A soft laugh escaped you before you could stop it, the sound echoing off the water-stained walls. You immediately clapped a hand over your mouth, but it was too late. You caught a glimpse of his silhouette between the maze of abandoned office furniture—tall, elegant, perfectly composed even in this decaying monument to corporate failure.

You were crouched behind a cluster of dusty desks, their surfaces covered in years of neglect and the ghosts of whoever had worked here before the building was left to rot. The metal was cold against your back, and you could taste the staleness of the air, thick with dust and the promise of rain from the broken windows above.

When you dared to peek around the edge of your hiding spot, you saw him turn sharply in your direction. His eyes hadn't found you yet, but his instincts were sharp as a blade. You ducked back down, heart hammering against your ribs like a caged bird.

The whistling started then.

It was a tune you recognized—something classical, elegant, completely at odds with the industrial decay surrounding you both. The melody floated through the air like a threat wrapped in silk, each note perfectly pitched despite the acoustics of the abandoned space. It was the sound of someone who had done this before, who knew exactly how to use every tool at his disposal to unnerve his prey.

But you weren't prey, not really. You were the rabbit to his wolf, and this was a dance you both knew the steps to.

His footsteps resumed, unhurried but purposeful. Click, click, click across the broken concrete. You could track his movement by sound alone—he was circling, cutting off your escape routes with the methodical precision of someone who had spent years perfecting the art of the hunt.

The adrenaline was intoxicating. Even though you knew this was a game, even though you trusted him with your life, your body responded to the primal thrill of being hunted. Your pulse quickened, your breathing grew shallow, and every shadow seemed to hold the possibility of discovery.

Little by little, he was getting closer to your cluster of desks. You could hear it in the way his footsteps seemed to echo more clearly now, could feel it in the way the air itself seemed to vibrate with his presence. The whistling grew louder, more intimate, as if he was serenading you even as he stalked you.

You pressed yourself deeper into the shadows, trying to make yourself smaller, invisible. But there was nowhere to go. The desks formed a prison of metal and wood around you, and you could feel the trap closing with each perfectly placed step.