I don’t look up when I hear the bedroom door open.
The footsteps are heavier, more utilitarian. They stop a few feet away from me. I don’t lift my head, but from under my lashes, I can see a pair of shiny black dress shoes, the kind his security detail wears.
“Boss,” the man says. His voice is flat, professional, completely ignoring the fact that his boss’s naked, bound, and filthy pet is kneeling on the floor three feet away. “We have a situation at the port warehouse. The one on the west pier. The shipment from Busan was intercepted. The men on site say it was Kyungho’s people. They left a message.”
I feel the change in the air before I hear it. A sudden tension, like the room itself has drawn a breath and held it. I risk a glance upward.
Suha has gone very still by the window where he’d been standing. His back is to us, his shoulders rigid under the fine wool of his suit jacket. For a long moment, he says nothing. The silence stretches, pulled tight.
Then he turns. His face is a mask of cold fury, but it’s the kind that simmers, dangerous and contained. His eyes are dark pits.“What kind of message?” His voice is low, but it carries a sharp edge.
The henchman doesn’t flinch. “They painted the lotus symbol on the crates. With a red ‘X’ through it. They took the product and the cash on hand. They... also took Manager Choi’s left pinky. They left it on the desk.”
Suha lets out a slow breath through his nose. It’s the sound of a man carefully banking a fire so it doesn’t explode. “Gather the lieutenants. My office. One hour.” He pauses, and his gaze flicks toward me for a fraction of a second, as if remembering I’m here, listening. “And find out how they knew about that shipment. I want to know who has a loose tongue. I want names by tonight.”
“Understood, boss.” The henchman gives a short, sharp nod, turns on his heel, and leaves. The door shuts softly behind him, sealing the thick quiet back into the room.
Suha stands there for another minute, staring at the space where his man had been. His jaw is tight, a muscle ticking near his temple. He runs a hand through his perfectly styled hair, a rare gesture of agitation. Then he seems to remember me.
He waves a dismissive hand in my direction, not really looking at me. “Get up. Go wash off. You’re disgusting.”
The command is a relief and a humiliation all at once. My muscles scream in protest as I try to move. My knees are locked, my thighs shrieking from the welts as I shift my weight. I have to use my cuffed hands to push myself up, the movement awkward and graceless. I stumble once, my bare foot slipping a little on the carpet, before I find my balance. The cage shifts, a cold, metallic reminder with every step.
As I pass him, heading for the bathroom, the words just slip out. I’m not even sure why I say them. Maybe it’s the leftover buzz in my head from the pain, or the strange, charged silence after the henchman’s report. “Still having trouble with your uncle, huh?”
Suha’s head turns sharply. He eyes me, his expression unreadable for a moment. He seems to be deciding whether to ignore me or punish me for speaking out of turn. Finally, he lets out a short, humorless sound. “Trouble is a gentle word for it. The old bastard’s like a cockroach. I can’t find him. He scuttles into the walls every time I get close.” He turns to look out the window again, his profile sharp against the city lights. “He knows my operations, my routines. He keeps trying to put a bullet in my back, and I’m getting tired of looking over my shoulder.”
There’s something in his tone I’ve never heard before. More than anger, it’s frustration, edged with what sounds almost like weariness. It’s the most he’s ever volunteered about his problems. I stand there, dripping on his expensive carpet, and feel an odd impulse.
“I doubt you’d accept my help if I offer it again,” I say, my voice rough from the gag.
Suha turns fully to face me then. His gaze travels over me, taking in the mess on my skin, the metal cage, the fresh piercings, the cuffs still locked around my wrists. A smirk touches his lips, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “You’re the one who’s always running, Yujeong. You don’t need to pretend you actually care about what happens to me.”
The words land softly, but they hit me with a force that has nothing to do with pain.
I just stare at him. My brain stutters, trying to process what I just heard. The cold control is still there, the arrogant lift of his chin, but beneath it... there’s something that feels like a crack in polished marble. It’s not an accusation shouted in rage. It’s stated as a simple, cold fact. It sounds almost like he wants it to be wrong. Like he’s presenting the statement to see if I’ll contradict it.
It’s the closest thing to vulnerability I have ever seen from him. It’s so unexpected, so utterly at odds with the man who just fucked my throat and locked my cock in steel, that I’m left completely speechless. My mouth is still tender, and I can’t seem to form any words around the sudden, tight feeling in my chest.
He watches my silence for a second longer, then looks away, as if bored by my lack of response. “The shower is through there. Leave after you’re clean. I have business to attend to.” He adjusts his cufflink. “I doubt you’ll be forgetting this lesson anytime soon.”
He says it like a period at the end of a sentence. A dismissal. But the echo of his previous words hangs in the air between us, twisting the meaning.
You don’t need to pretend you actually care.
As I shuffle into the massive bathroom, closing the door softly behind me, the sentence replays in my head.
It wasn’t just what he said. It was how he said it. The tone was different. Less commanding, less sure of itself. There was a question buried in those words. Or maybe a hope. A stupid, fragile hope that someone might give a damn if a bullet finally found him.
The cage is heavy. The piercings ache. Every mark on my skin hums with a memory of pain.
And beneath all of that, a new, confusing sensation sits quietly, turning over his words in my mind, looking for the shape of the thing he didn’t say.
The metal bars through my nipples catch on the inside of my shirt for the hundredth time that day, a sharp little tug that makes me hiss and adjust the fabric. It’s been four days since Suha had them done, and they still feel raw and tender, a low throb that flares up every time I move wrong. I’m standing in line at a convenience store, trying to buy a pack of cigarettes and a bottle of water, and the simple act of reaching for my wallet makes the fresh piercings protest. I have to move slower, more carefully, like my whole upper body is suddenly fragile.
It’s nothing compared to the cage.
That’s a whole other level of awareness. A constant, snug pressure that makes sitting, walking, even just existing, feel different. It’s not exactly painful, just present. A reminder that sits right at the center of me. I have to plan my bathroom breaks now, because pissing through the tiny hole at the top is a fucking ordeal that requires concentration and aim. It’s humiliating in a way that’s almost funny, if I wasn’t the one living it. Suha’s littlelesson in ownership. My pleasure belongs to him, locked away behind a padlock only he has the key for.
