The night air outside is cool and sharp, a shock after the cloistered, scent-heavy heat of Suha’s bedroom. I take a deep, gulping breath of it, but it doesn’t clear my head. I start walking, with no particular direction in mind. Just away.
With every step, I can feel it. Not a pain, but a presence. A deep, internal pressure, a cold, hard spot nestled inside me. A constant, silent reminder with every shift of my hips, every footfall on the pavement. I am not free. I am tagged, tracked, and owned.
I belong to Suha now, whether I like it or not. And the terrifying, shameful part of me, the part that craved this very brand of absolute domination, thrums with a dark, satisfied hum.
The bell above the gym’s door rattles as I shove it open, the sound swallowed by the thump of a heavy bag and the grunts from the ring. I head straight for the back office, ignoring the curious glances from the new guys. I don’t bother knocking, just push the door open to find Hansol hunched over a ledger, a cigarette smoldering in an ashtray overflowing with butts.
He glances up, his scarred face creasing into what passes for a smile. “Yujeong. Good fight the other night. The sponsors liked the show. You’re pulling a crowd.”
“Yeah, about that,” I say, leaning against the doorframe. My ass is still tender from a few days ago, a fact I’m acutely aware of as I shift my weight. “I’m done.”
Hansol’s pen stops moving. He blinks slowly, like a lizard. “Done with what?”
“Fighting. I’m not doing it anymore.”
For a second, he just stares. Then he sputters, a short, explosive sound. “The hell you aren’t. You’re my top draw right now. You can’t just bedone.”
“I can, and I am.” I keep my voice flat. I don’t have the energy for his bullshit today. My entire body feels like one giant, overused bruise. “Consider this my notice.”
He shoves his chair back, the legs scraping against the concrete floor. “You’re under contract, kid. You walk, you don’t get paid. You think you can just waltz out of here? Where are you gonna go? Back to sleeping on rooftops and running from Taewoo?”
I push off the doorframe and take a step into the small, cluttered room. “I hardly think you’re in a position to give me shit about my choices, boss. Not after you pimped me out to a mobster last week.”
All the color drains from Hansol’s face, leaving his scars standing out in stark, white lines. He looks like I just punched him in the gut. “I didn’t... I didn’t know he was a mobster,” he says, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. He glances toward the closed door as if Suha’s men might be listening on the other side. “He was just some rich suit waving cash around, asking to meet the fighters. I thought... fuck, Yujeong, I thought you’d handle it. You always handle it. Knock the guy out, take his wallet, and be done with it. That’s what you do.”
“Well, I didn’t,” I say, and I can’t keep the edge out of my voice. The memory of that suite, of Suha’s fingers inside me before I was ready, of the belt biting into my wrists, flashes hot and sharp behind my eyes. “I ‘handled’ it, alright. And now I can’t fight anymore. His new rule.”
Hansol runs a hand over his military-short hair, his knuckle tattoos—FIGHT, LIVE—flexing. He looks genuinely rattled, which is a first. “Shit. I didn’t mean for... look, kid, I’m sorry. But you can’t just quit. What are you gonna do for money?”
I shrug indifferently. “I have a patron.”
That’s one word for it, but not inaccurate, and I can’t think of a more PG way to describe Suha.
“You think your patron is gonna fund your whole life?” He spits the word ‘patron’ like it’s something foul.
I shrug, a movement that pulls at the bite marks on my shoulders. “He seems to be so far.”
I don’t tell him about the bank alerts that started popping up on my phone a week after Suha tagged me. Deposits from something called ‘Lotus Holdings.’ Amounts that made me check the balance three times, my thumb smudging the screen. More money than I’d see in six months of fighting, even on a good streak. It felt less like payment and more like a taunt. A price tag.This is what you’re worth to me. Now behave.
Hansol stares at me, his dark eyes searching my face for a lie. He must not find one, because he finally sinks back into his chair with a heavy sigh. The fight goes out of him, leaving just a tired-looking middle-aged man in a stained tank top. “Fine. You’re a crazy son of a bitch, and you’re gonna get yourself killed playing house with a guy like that. But it’s your funeral. Don’t come crawling back to me when he gets bored and tosses you out.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I say, and turn to leave.
“Yujeong.” His voice stops me at the door. I look back. He’s not looking at me, just staring at his ledger. “Watch your back.”
I don’t answer. I just walk out, the sounds of the gym fading behind me. It should feel like a loss, cutting that last tether to the life I built for myself. But all I feel is a weird, hollow relief. One less thing to juggle. One less set of expectations.
For the next few weeks, I try to be good. Or as good as I get.
When Suha calls, I go. The summons usually comes as a text—a time and an address, never a question. Sometimes it’s the mansion. Sometimes it’s a hotel suite. Sometimes it’s his office,where I end up on my knees under his desk while he talks mergers in a voice that never wavers.
He’s... creative. I’ll give him that. The boredom I worried about never materializes. One night it’s a meticulous, agonizing session with a flogger, the leather tails painting overlapping stripes across my back until the skin hums with heat. Another time, he blindfolds me, ties me in intricate rope harnesses that dig into my muscles in the best way, and uses a fuckingwandon me until I’m sobbing and begging, convinced I’m going to come apart from the inside. He bites new marks over the old ones, a possessive bastard making sure the evidence of his claim never fades. He seems to have a particular fascination with my nipples, clamping them, weighting them, teasing them until they’re perpetually sensitive and swollen.
And the sex. Fuck. It’s never just sex. It’s a conquest every time. He fucks me like he’s trying to rewrite my DNA, to hammer the shape of his cock into my bones. Hard, deep, and with a focus that’s almost unnerving. He watches my face the entire time, cataloging every wince, every gasp, every broken moan. It’s exhilarating. It’s exactly what I wanted. For a while.
The problem is his appetite. It’s bottomless. The more he has me, the more he seems to want me. The calls start coming daily. Then twice a day. It’s like I opened a floodgate, and now he expects me to stem the tide with my own body.
Which leads to the five-night stretch that finally breaks me.
