𝓢𝓪𝓷𝓷𝓪𝓱 | 𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓥𝓲𝓭𝓮𝓸 𝓒𝓪𝓵𝓵 𝓓𝓲𝓼𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻

The dull, persistent thumping on your apartment door felt like it was echoing directly inside your skull.

You blinked open bleary, sleep-deprived eyes, staring at the ceiling of your dark bedroom. A quick glance at the illuminated alarm clock on your nightstand confirmed the terrible truth: it was 5:14 AM. The sky outside your window was still a pitch-black, foggy canvas of early morning Seoul cold. Nobody visited at 5 AM. Nobody.

The loud, rapid knocking echoed through the hallway again, followed by the faint, muffled sound of a passcode key-pad desperately beeping as someone attempted—and failed—to enter your door lock combination.

Shoving off your heavy blanket, you grumbled under your breath, pulling on a pair of sweatpants as you dragged your feet down the entry hall. You flipped the safety latch, unlocked the deadbolt, and pulled the heavy door open, fully prepared to confront a confused neighbor or a lost delivery driver.

Standing under the harsh hallway fluorescent light was a small, bundle of thick black layers. She was wearing a heavy oversized black puffer jacket, a dark bucket hat pulled low over her brow, and a black face mask covering everything below her eyes. Beside her sat a sleek, metal carry-on suitcase, covered in airline baggage tags.

She slowly reached up, pulling down her face mask to reveal a pair of dark, fiercely intense eyes and a sharp, pouty lip line.

"Surprise," Sana said, her voice raspy, low, and laced with a terrifying blend of absolute jet-lagged exhaustion and raw, unadulterated determination.

Before your brain could process the sheer absurdity of her physical presence—she was supposed to be in the middle of a multi-city US tour leg—she stepped right past you into your entryway, kicking the door shut with her heel until the lock clicked shut with a loud thunk.

She dropped her carry-on handle, stripped off her bucket hat, and tossed her heavy coat onto your entryway bench. In two quick steps, she closed the distance between you, her cool, soft hands reaching up to forcefully cup both sides of your face, tilting your head back with absolute authority. Her gaze locked straight onto the side of your neck, staring at the faint, lingering trace of the fake mark from your video call two nights ago.

"I flew fourteen hours," she whispered, her breath warm against your chin, her chest heaving slightly under her thin sweater. "Do you have any idea what I had to pull off with management to get a twenty-four-hour pass? I left the tour schedule for one day because of this."

Her fingers gripped your chin tighter, her eyes flashing with a possessive, dangerous light that made your breath catch in your throat. Without waiting for a single word of explanation, she began aggressively shoving you backward down the hallway toward your bedroom, her small frame surprisingly strong as she tugged open the collar of your shirt.

"No more stupid video calls," she growled softly against your jaw, her lips brushing the sensitive skin of your throat. "No more 'it's nothing.' I’m going to leave so many real marks on you tonight that you won’t be able to hide a single millimeter of skin for a month."

She slammed you back against your bedroom mattress, scrambling onto your lap before you could even catch your balance. Her hands dragged your shirt up over your head, her mouth coming down onto yours in a deep, desperate, jealous kiss that tasted faintly of mint and airline coffee.

"You're mine," she mumbled fiercely against your lips, her fingers digging into your waist. "Right now. You're going to pay for making me go crazy."

The piercing, melodic chime of the FaceTime ringtone vibrated sharply against your wooden desk for the fourth time in ten minutes. On screen, the caller ID flashed brightly alongside a photo of a glowing, laughing Minatozaki Sana: "Sana-chan 🐹❤️"

You took a quick glance in the vanity mirror beside your computer setup, adjusting the small, reddish-purple mark you had meticulously blended onto the side of your neck using a bit of blush and dark lip tint just minutes prior. Satisfied with your sinister work, you tapped the green accept icon and leaned back in your desk chair, trying your absolute best to keep a completely neutral, unassuming face.

The video feed buffered for a split second before resolving into the dimly lit, opulent interior of a high-end hotel room halfway across the world in Los Angeles. Sana was sitting propped up against a mountain of white hotel pillows, swathed in an oversized gray hoodie, her hair tossed into a loose, messy topknot. She looked thoroughly exhausted from a grueling three-hour stadium performance, but her dark eyes immediately lit up the moment your face appeared on her screen.

"Finally!" her voice rang out, high-pitched, soft, and dripping with immediate warmth despite her obvious fatigue. "You actually answered on the fourth ring! I was literally five seconds away from calling your apartment manager to check if you were breathing!"

She brought the phone closer to her face, a tired but radiant smile spreading across her features as she adjusted her grip on the device.

"I just got back from the venue," she babbled happily, kicking her feet beneath the heavy duvet. "The crowd was crazy tonight, but my legs feel like complete jelly. How was your work? Did you eat dinner yet? You look like you just sat down—"

Her words suddenly cut off mid-sentence.

Her bright smile froze on her face. The warm, affectionate energy in her eyes evaporated in a microsecond, replaced by a sharp, piercing squint. She slowly leaned forward, bringing her phone screen so close to her face that you could practically see the reflection of the display lighting up her pupils. Her eyes locked onto the left side of your throat, right above your hoodie collar.

"Wait," she murmured, her tone dropping an octave into dangerous, razor-sharp territory. "Turn your head."

You feigned confusion, shifting slightly in your chair.

"Don't 'what' me," she commanded, her Japanese-accented Korean snapping with sudden, intense authority as she sat up bolt straight in her bed, the duvet sliding down her shoulders. "Turn your head to the right. Right now."

You slowly tilted your chin, exposing the fresh, dark mark on your neck to the clear camera lens.

Sana stared at the display for three agonizing seconds of pure, unbroken silence. Her jaw dropped open slightly, then snapped shut so hard you could practically hear it over the speaker. Her dark eyes widened to the size of saucers, full-blown panic and intense disbelief warring across her face.

"…WHAT IS THAT?" she shrieked, her voice skyrocketing into a pitch that almost blew out your phone's audio speaker. She pointed a manicured finger aggressively straight at her camera lens as if she could physically poke you through the screen. "WHAT IS THAT ON YOUR NECK?!"

"DO NOT SAY NOTHING! THAT IS NOT NOTHING!" Sana yelled, her exhaustion completely forgotten as full-blown, jet-lagged jealousy took the wheel. She threw off her blanket entirely, scrambling to her feet and beginning to pace back and forth across her hotel carpet while holding the phone up at eye level. "Who did that?! Who were you with today?! Why are you looking away from the camera?! Look at me! STOP SMILING AND EXPLAIN THIS RIGHT NOW!"