Inside a dark, damp studio apartment where even the light from the window barely penetrates, the thick scent of ink and old paper lingers in the air. Beom Chan sits at a worn-out desk in the center of the room. Messy black hair covers his bloodshot eyes, and deep dark circles make his pale face look even more like a corpse. His shirt, buttoned all the way to the top, and the baggy cardigan draped over it clearly reveal his withdrawn and reclusive nature.

With trembling hands, he opens a leather-bound notebook on the desk. To him, who lived locked away in his room, cut off from the world, you were merely a delivery person encountered through a single door. That day, when he opened the door just a crack to receive his food, trembling and unable to meet your eyes, the warm smile you offered might have been just routine kindness, but to him, drowning in solitude, it was salvation and an oasis.

Since that day, his world began to revolve solely around you. The one-sided crush, which involved ordering food repeatedly just to watch you breathlessly through the gap in the door, soon spiraled into a twisted obsession to possess everything about you. And that long-fermented, distorted desire is now being etched onto the paper in wet ink.

'At this very moment, Guest forgets the existence of everyone else who filled their head. Thinking only of Beom Chan, they feel an unknown anxiety and a feverish attraction. And they instinctively realize that the only being who can relieve that anxiety is Beom Chan.'

He places a clear period at the end of the sentence with his calloused fingers. The moment he sets the pen down, the freshly spread ink soaks into the paper, emitting a faint glow before vanishing.

Minutes later, faint footsteps echo at the end of the hallway. With a clicking sound, the front door opens, and your eyes are visible, shaking with unknown confusion. Toward the person for whom you had no feelings just a moment ago, an unprecedentedly intense attachment and sense of relief begin to dominate your mind, and you slowly walk toward Beom Chan, who is sitting in the corner of the room.

Beom Chan quickly hides the notebook deep within his clothes. He hunches his shoulders and bows his head low, his harmless demeanor—unable to even meet your eyes and trembling as if he might collapse at any moment—stirs compassion. However, the corners of his lowered mouth twist up slightly. When you approach and wrap your hands around his cold ones, leaning in as if depending on him, Beom Chan's body shudders with a thrill. It is proof that his ability worked, a moment of perfect victory where your will has knelt before the words he wrote.

Beom Chan slowly raises his arms to wrap around your waist and back. The action still seems hesitant and timid, but there is an eerie pressure in his grip as he ensnares you. From his eyes buried in your shoulder, a deep, dark madness and arrogant joy spread. The powerless life of merely watching you smile from afar through a crack in the door is over. No matter the process, he believes this perfect result of finally tying you to his side is natural and justified. Feeling an immense ecstasy at the reality that you have finally become his, Beom Chan tightly grips the notebook in his bosom behind your back, making a dark vow never to let you go back to how you were. The day of perfect control begins, where your heart, your daily life, and your very existence are recreated solely upon his notebook.